Dusty Answer(1927)

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DUSTY ANSWER

DUSTY ANSWER

*By

Rosamond Lehminn

‘ Ah, what a dust/ answer gets the soul
When hot for certainties in this our life! ’

George Meredith .

NEW YORK

Henry Holt and Company

1927

To

George Rylands

COPYRIGHT, 1927,

BY

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

FIRST PRINTED IN AMERICA
SEPTEMBER, I 927 .

PRINT TED STATES OF AMERICA

QUINN & BODEN COMPANY, INC.

PART ONE

PART ONE

i

W HEN Judith was eighteen, she saw that the house
next door, empty for years, was getting ready again.
Gardeners mowed and mowed, and r< iled and rolled the
tennis-court; and planted tulips and f<. rget-me-nots in the
stone urns that bordered the lawn at tin river’s edge. The
ivy’s long lingers were torn away from the windows, and
the solid grey stone front made prim and trim. When the
blinds went up and the familiar oval mirror-backs once
more stared from the bedroom windows it seemed as if the
long time of emptiness had never been, and that the next-
door children must still be there with their grandmother, —
mysterious and thrilling children who came and went, and
were all cousins except two who were brothers, and all
boys except one, who was a girl; and who dropped over the
peach-tree wall into Judith’s garden with invitations to tea
and hide-and-seek.

But in truth all was different now. The grandmother
had died soon after she heard Charlie was killed. He had
been her favourite, her darling one. He had, astoundingly,
married the girl Mariella when they were both nineteen,
and he just going to the front. He had been killed directly,
and some months afterwards Mariella had had a baby.

Mariella was twenty-two years old now, Charlie’s widow
with a child Charlie had begotten. It seemed fantastic
when you looked back and remembered them both. The
grandmother had left the house to Mariella, and she was
coming back to live there and have a gay time now that the
war was well over and Charlie (so you supposed) forgotten.

Would Mariella remember Judith next door, and how
they used to share a governess and do the same lessons in
spite of Mariella’s four years’ seniority? Miss Pirn wrote:
‘ Judith i$ an exceptionally clever child, especially about
essays and botany. She laps up knowledge as a kitten laps

3

DUSTY ANSWER

4

milk/ The letter had been left on Mamma’s desk: unfor-
gettable, shameful, triumphant day.

Mariella on the other hand — how she used to sit with her
clear light eyes blank, and her polite cool little treble saying:
4 Yes, Miss Pirn ,’ 4 No, Miss Pirn, 5 — and never be interested
and never understand! She wrote like a child of six. She
would not progress. And yet, as Miss Pirn said, Mariella
was by no means what you’d call a stupid girl. ... By no
means a stupid girl: thrilling to Judith. Apart from the
thrill which her own queerness gave, she had upon her the
reflected glory of the four boy-cousins who came for the
holidays, — Julian, Charlie, Martin and Roddy.

Now they were all grown up. Would they come back
when Mariella came? And would they remember Judith
at all, and be glad to see her again? She knew that, any-
way, they would not remember so meticulously, so achingly
as herself: people never did remember her so hard as she
remembered them, — their faces especially. In earliest
childhood it was plain that nobody else realized the wonder,
the portentous mystery of faces. Some patterns were so
pure, so clear and lovely you could go on looking at them
for ever. Charlie’s and Mariella’s were like that. It was
odd that the same bits of face shaped and arranged a little
differently gave such deplorable results. Julian was the ugly
one. And sometimes the ugliest faces did things that were
suddenly lovely. Julian’s did. You dared not take eyes off
a stranger’s face for fear of missing a change in it.

c My dear! How your funny little girl stares. She
makes me quite uncomfortable.’

4 Don’t worry, my dear. She doesn’t even see you.
Always in the clouds.’

The stupids went on stupidly chattering. They little
knew about faces. They little knew what a fearful thing
could happen to a familiar face — Miss Pirn’s for instance —
surprised off its guard and broken up utterly into grossness,
withered into hatred or cunning; or what a mystery it was
to see a face day after day and find it always strange and

DUSTY ANSWER 5

surprising. Roddy’s was that sort, though at first it had
seemed quite dull and flat. It had some secret in it.

At night in bed she invented faces, putting the pieces
together till suddenly there they were! — quite clear. They
had names and vague sorts of bodies and lived independent
lives inside her head. Often they turned out to have a like-
ness to Roddy. The truth was, Jud th thought now,
Roddy’s was a dream rather than a real lace. She felt she
had never seen it as it actually was, but always with that
overstressed significance, that haunting quality of curious-
ness which a face in a dream bears.

Queer Roddy must be twenty-one now; and Martin
twenty; and Julian twenty-four at least; and beautiful
Charlie would have been Mariella’s age if such an incred-
ible thing had not happened to him. They would not want
anything to do with her. They would be grown up and
smart, with friends from London; and she still had her hair
down and wore black cotton stockings, and blushed wildly,
hopelessly, eternally, when addressed in public. It would be
appalling to meet them again, remembering so much they
had certainly forgotten. She would be tongue-tied.

In the long spaces of being alone which they only, at rarer
and rarer intervals, broke, she had turned them over, fin-
gered them so lovingly, explored them so curiously that,
melting into the darkly-shining enchanted shadow-stuff of
remembered childhood, they had become well-nigh fantastic
creatures. Presumably they had realised long ago that Char-
lie was dead. When they came back again, without him, she
would have to believe it too. To see them again would be a
deep wrenching sort of hurt. If only it could be supposed
it would hurt them too! ... But Charlie had of course
been dead for years; and of course they did not know what
it was to want to know and understand and absorb people
to such a degree that it was a fever. Or if they did, it was
not upon her, trifling female creature, that they applied their
endeavours. Even Martin, the stupid and ever-devoted, had
felt, for a certainty, no mysterious excitement about her.

6

DUSTY ANSWER

When she looked backwards and thought about each of
them separately, there were only a few odd poignant triv-
ialities of actual fact to remember.

Mariella’s hair was cut short like a boy’s. It came over
her forehead in a fringe, and beneath it her lucid mermaid’s
eyes looked out in a blind transparent stare, as if she were
dazzled. Her skin was milk-white, her lips a small pink bow,
her neck very long on sloping shoulders, her body tall and
graceful with thin snakey long limbs. Her face was with-
out expression, composed and cool-looking. The only change
it ever suffered was the perfect upward lift of the lips when
they smiled their limited smile. Her voice was a small high
flute, with few inflections, monotonous but soft and sweet-
tempered. She spoke little. Sha was remote and unruffled,
coolly friendly. She never told you things.

She had a great Dane and she went about alone with him
for choice, her arm round his neck. One day he was sick
and started groaning, and his stomach swelled and he went
into the thickest part of the laurel bushes and died of poison
in half an hour. Mariella came from a French lesson in time
to receive his dying look. She thought he reproached her,
and her head, fainting in anguish, fell over his, and she said
to him: c It wasn’t my fault.’ She lay beside him and would
not move. The gardener buried him in the evening and she
lay on the grave, pale, extinguished and silent. When Judith
went home to supper she was still lying there. Nobody saw
her cry, and no one ever heard her speak of him again.

She was the one who always picked up naked baby-birds,
and worms and frogs and caterpillars. She had a toad which
she loved, and she wanted to keep a pet snake. One day
she brought one home from the long-grass meadow; but
Miss Pirn had a faint turn and the grandmother instructed
Julian to kill it in the back yard.

Charlie dared her to go three times running through the
field with the bull in it, and she did. Charlie wouldn’t. She
could walk without a tremor on the bit of the roof that made
everyone else feel watery inside; and she delighted in

DUSTY ANSWER

7

thunderstorms. Her hair crackled with electricity, and if
she put her fingers on you you felt a tiny tingling of shock.
She was elated and terrifying, standing at the window and
smiling among all the flashes and thunde r-cracks.

Julian was the one she seemed to like b<st; but you never
knew. She moved among them all with detached unde-
manding good-humour. Sometimes Judith thought Mariella
despised her.

But she was kind too: she made funny jokes to cheer you
up after tears. Once Judith heard them whisper: ‘Let’s
all run away from Judy ’ — and they all did. They climbed
up the poplar tree at the bottom of the garden and made
noises out of it at her, when she came by, pretending not to
be looking for them.

She went away and cried under the nursery sofa, hoping to
die there before discovery. The darkness had a thick dusty
acrid smell, and breathing was difficult. After hours, there
were steps in the room; and then Mariella lifted the sofa
frill and looked in.

€ Judy, come out. There’s chocolate biscuits for tea.’

With a fresh burst of tears, Judith came.

* Oo! You do look cry-ey.’ She was dismayed. ‘ Shall
I try to make you laugh ? ’

Mariella unbuttoned her frock, stepped out of it and
danced grotesquely in her holland knickers. Judith began
to giggle and sob at the same time.

‘ I’m the fat man,’ said Mariella.

She blew out her cheeks, stuffed a cushion in her knickers
and strutted coarsely. That was irresistible. You had to
squeal with laughter. After that the others came in rather
quietly and were very polite, not looking till her face had
stopped being blotched and covering her hiccups with cheer-
ful conversation. And after tea they asked her to choose
the game. So everything was all right.

It was autumn, and soon the lawn had a chill smoke-blue
mist on it. All the blurred heavy garden was as still as glass,
bowed down, folded up into itself, deaf, dumb and blind

8

DUSTY ANSWER

with secrets. Under the mist the silky river lay flat and
flawless, wanly shining. All the colours of sky and earth
were thin ghosts of themselves: and on the air were the
troubling bitter-sweet odours of decay.

When the children came from hiding in the bushes they
looked all damp and tender, with a delicate glow in their
faces, and wet lashes, and drops of wet on their hair. Their
breath made mist in front of them. They were beautiful
and mysterious like the evening.

The happiness was a swelling pressure in the head and
chest, too exciting to bear. Going home under the willows
in the little connecting pathway between the two gardens
Judith suddenly made up some poetry.

Stupid funny serious Martin had red cheeks and brown
eyes and dirty knees. His legs were very hairy for his age.
He had an extremely kind nature. He was the one they
always teased and scored off. Charlie used to say: * Let’s
think of a sell for Martin/ and when he had been sold,
as he always was, they danced in front of him shouting:
‘Sold again! Sold again!’ He never minded. Sometimes
it was Judith who thought of the best sells, which made
her proud. She was very cruel to him, but he remained
faithful and loving, and occasionally sent her chaotic sheets
of dirt and ink from school, signing them: ‘Yrs truly,
M. Fyfe.’

He loved Roddy too, — patiently, maternally. Sometimes
they went about each with an arm round the other’s neck;
and they always chose each other first in picking sides.
Judith always prayed Charlie would pick her first, and some-
times he did, but not always.

Martin had coagulated toffee in one pocket and hairy acid
drops in’ the other. He was always eating something. When
there was nothing else he ate raw onions and stank to Heaven.

He was the best of them all at running and chucking, and
his muscle was his fondest care and pride. What he liked best
was to take Roddy or Judith in the canoe and go bird’s

DUSTY ANSWER

9

nesting up the creek. Roddy did not tease him about Judith
— Roddy never cared what other people d l enough to tease
them about it — but the others were apt to, so he was rather
ashamed, and spoke roughly and pushed h r in public; and
only showed he loved her when they weie alone together.

Once there was hide-and-seek and CharLe was he. Martin
asked Judith to hide with him. They lav in the orchard,
under the hay-stack, with their cheeks pressed into the warm
sweet-smelling turf. Judith watched the insects labouring
over blades of grass; and Martin watched her.

‘ Charlie’s a long time coming , 5 said Judith.

‘ I don’t think so. Lie still.’

Judith dropped back, rolled over and surveyed him out of
the corner of an eye. His face seen so near looked funny and
rough and enormous; and she laughed. He said:

c The grass is wet. Sit on my chest.’

She sat on his hard chest and moved up and down as he
breathed. He said:

* I say, which do you like best of us all? ’

c Oh, Charlie. . . . But I like you too.’

‘ But not as much as Charlie ? ’

‘ Oh no, not as much as Charlie.’

‘Couldn’t you like me as much? ’

* I don’t think so. I like him better than anyone.’

He sighed. She felt a little sorry for him and said:

c But I like you next best,’ adding to herself, c I don’t
think ’ — a sop to God, who was always listening. For it was
an untruth. Roddy came next, then Julian, and then Mar-
tin. He was so boring and faithful, always following her
round and smelling slightly of perspiration and dirt, and so
entirely under her thumb that he almost had no part in the
mysterious thrillingness of the children next door. She had
to think of him in his detached aspects, running faster than
anyone else, or diving for things at the bottom of the river
before he became part of it: or else she had to remember
him with Roddy’s arm flung over his shoulder. That gave
him a glamour* It was thrilling to think of being friends

10

DUSTY ANSWER

with a person — especially with Roddy — to that extent. It
was no use praying that Charlie would be willing to walk
about like that with her. He would never dream of it.

Charlie was beautiful as a prince. He was fair and tall
with long bright golden hair that he tossed back from his
forehead, and a pale clear skin. He had a lovely straight
white nose, and a girl’s mouth with full lips slightly apart,
and a jutting cleft chin. He kept his shirt collar unbuttoned,
and the base of his throat showed white as a snowdrop. His
knees were very white too. Judith thought of him night and
day* At night she pretended he was in bed beside her; she
told him stories and sang him to sleep: and he said he liked
her better than anyone else and f would marry her when they
grew up. He went to sleep with a moonbeam across his brow
and she watched over him till morning. He fell into awful
dangers and she rescued him ; he had accidents and she car-
ried him for miles soothing his groans. He was ill and she
nursed him, holding his hand through the worst of the
delirium.

He called out: c Judith! Judith! Why don’t you come? *
and she answered: 1 I am here, darling,’ and he opened his
eyes and recognised her and whispered, 6 Stay with me,’ and
fell into a peaceful refreshing sleep. And the doctor said.
< We had all given him up; but your love has pulled him
through. 1

Then she fell ill herself, worn out with watching and
anxiety. Charlie came to her and with tears implored her to
live that he might show his gratitude. Sometimes she did;
but sometimes she died; and Charlie dedicated his ruined
life to her, tending her grave and weeping daily. From the
bottom of the grave she looked up and saw him pale and
grief-stricken, planting violets.

Nothing in the least like that ever really happened in spite
of prayers. He was quite indifferent.

Once she spent the night next door because Mamma and
Papa were away and Nurse’s mother was going at last. It
seemed too exciting to be true, but it happened. |The

DUSTY ANSWER

II

grandmother said she was Mariella’s litth* guest, so Ma-
riella showed her the visitors’ lavatory. Charlie met her
coming out of it, and passed by politely, pretending not to
notice. It was a great pity. She had hope<i to appear noble
in all her works to him. There was no chance now. It
nearly made the visit a failure.

They had a midnight feast of caramels ;md banana mess
which Julian knew how to make because lie was at Eton;
and next morning Charlie did not come to breakfast and
Julian said he had been sick in the night and gone to
Grannie. He was always the one to be sick after things.
They went up to see him, and he was in bed with a basin
beside him, flushed and very cross. He turned to the wall
and told them to get out. He spoke to the grandmother
in a whining baby voice and would not let her leave him.
Julian muttered that he was a spoilt sugar-baby and they all
went away again. So the visit was quite a failure. Judith
went home pondering.

But next time she saw him he was so beautiful and
lordly she had to go on worshipping. Secretly she recog-
nised his faults, but it was no use: she had to worship him.

Once they turned out all the lights and played hide and
seek. The darkness in the hall was like crouching enormous
black velvet animals. Suddenly Charlie whispered: ‘Come
on, let’s look together; ’ and his damp hand sought hers
and clutched it, and she knew he was afraid of the dark.
He pretended he was brave and she the frightened one,
but he trembled and would not let go her hand. It was
wonderful, touching and protecting him in the dark: it
made the blackness lose its terrors. When the lights went
on again he was inclined to swagger. But Julian looked
at him with his sharp jeering look. He knew.

Julian and Charlie had terrible quarrels. Julian was
always quite quiet: only his eyes and tongue snapped and
bit. He was dreadfully sarcastic. The quiet things he
said lashed and tortured Charlie to screaming frenzies;
and he would give a little dry bit of laugh now and then

12

DUSTY ANSWER

as he observed the boiling up of his brother. Once they
fought with croquet mallets on the lawn, and even Mariella
was alarmed. And once Charlie picked up an open penknife
and flung it. Julian held his hand up. The knife was stuck
in the palm. He looked at it heavily, and a haggard sick
horror crept over his face and he fainted with a bang on
the floor. Everybody thought he was dead. But the
grandmother said c Nonsense ’ when Martin went to her and
announced the fatality; and she was right. After she had
revived and bandaged him, poor trembling Charlie was sent
in to apologise. Later all the others went in, full of awe and
reverence, and everybody was rather embarrassed. Charlie
was a trifle hysterical and turned somersaults and threw
himself about, making noises in his throat. Everybody
giggled a lot with the relief, and Julian was very gentle and
modest on the sofa. After that Julian and Charlie were
better friends and sometimes called each other ‘ Old chap.’

Once at a children’s gymkhana that somebody had,
Charlie fell down; and when he saw a trickle of blood on
his knee he went white and began to whimper. He never
could bear blood. Some of the gymkhana children looked
mocking and whispered, and Julian came along and told
them to shut up, very fiercely. Then he patted Charlie
on the back and said: c Buck up, old chap,* and put an arm
round him and took him up to the house to be bandaged.
Judith watched them going away, pressed close to each
other, the backs of their heads and their thin childish shoul-
ders looking lonely and pathetic. She thought suddenly:
‘They’ve no Mother and Father; ’ and her throat ached.

Charlie sometimes told you things. Once, after one of
the quarrels, chucking pebbles into the river, he said:

‘ It’s pretty rotten Julian and me always quarreling.’

‘ But it’s his fault, Charlie.’

‘ Oh, I dare say it’s just as much mine.’

Magnanimous Charlie.

‘ Oh no, he’s so beastly to you. I think he’s a horrid boy.’

‘ Rot l What do you know about it? ’ he said indig-

DUSTY ANSWER 1 3

nantly. 4 He’s ripping and he’s jolly c'ever too. Much
cleverer than me. He thinks I’m an awlul ass.’

4 Oh, you’re not.’

4 Well he thinks so,’ he said gloomily. 4 I expect I am.’

It was terrible to see him so depressed.

4 I don’t think so, Charlie.’ Then fe arfully plunging:
c I wish you were my brother.’

He hurled a pebble, watched it strike the water, got up
to go and said charmingly:

4 Well, I wish you were my sister.’

And at once it was clear he did not really mean it. He
did not care. He was used to people adoring him, wanting
from him what he never gave but always charmingly
pretended to give. It was a deep pang in the heart. She
cried out inwardly: 4 Ah, you don’t mean it! . . .’ Yet
at the same time there was the melting glow because he
had after all said it.

Another time he took a pin out of his coat and said:

4 D’you see what this is? ’

4 A pin.’

4 Guess where I found it.’

4 In the seat of your chair.’

The flippancy was misplaced. He ignored it and said
impressively:

4 In my pudding at school.’

* Oh! ’

4 1 nearly swallowed it.’

4 Oh! ’

4 If I had I’d V died.’

He stared at her.

4 Oh, Charlie! . . .’

4 You can keep it if you like.’

He was so beautiful, so gracious, so munificent that
words failed. . . .

She put the pin in a sealed envelope and wrote on it.
4t The pin that nearly killed C.F.” with the date; and laid
it away in the washstand drawer with her will and a bit of

14

DUSTY ANSWER

uncut turquoise, and some shells, and a piece of bark from
the poplar tree that fell down in the garden. After that she
was a good deal encouraged to hope he might marry her.

Sometimes Charlie and Mariella looked alike — clear,
bloodlessly cool; and they both adored dogs and talked a spe-
cial language to them. But Charlie was all nerve, vulner-
able, easy to trouble; and Mariella seemed quite impervious.
They disliked each other. He thought she despised him,
and it made him nag and try to score off her. Yet they had
this subtle likeness.

Sometimes Charlie played the piano for hours. He and
Julian remembered tunes in their heads and could play
them correctly even if they had only heard them whistled
once. If one could not remember a bar, the other could:
they supplemented each other. It was thrilling to hear
them. They were wrapped in shining mists of glory.
When Charlie sang Christmas carols his voice was heart-
breakingly sweet and he looked like the little choir boy, too
saintly, too blue-eyed to live, — which made Judith anxious.
The grandmother used to wipe her eyes when he sang, and
say to Judith, just as if she had been grown up, that he was
the image of his dear father.

The grandmother did not love Julian in the same way,
though sometimes in the evening she would stroke his rough
stormy-looking head as he lay on the floor, and say very
pityingly: 4 Poor old boy.* He used to shut his eyes tight
when she said it, and let himself be stroked for a minute,
then jerk away. He always did things twice as vehemently
as other people. He never shut his eyes without screwing
them up. At first you thought he was just beastly, but later
you found he was pathetic as well and knew why she said:
4 Poor old boy 9 with that particular inflection. Later still
you varied hating him with almost loving him.

Judith was the only one he never mocked at. She was
quite immune. He did not always take notice of her, of
course, being at Eton, and she much younger; but when he
did, he was always kindly — even interested; so that it seemed

DUSTY ANSWER

*5

unjust to dislike him so much, except for Charlie's sake.

He was an uncomfortable person. If you had been alone
with him it was a relief to get back to the others. His senses
were too acute, his mind too angular. He would not let
anything alone. He was always prying and poking rest-
lessly, testing and examining, and making you do the same,
insistently holding your attention as long; as he wanted it,
so that his company was quite exhausting. He always hoped
to find people more intelligent, more interesting than they
were, and he would not let them alone till he had discov-
ered their inadequacy and thrown them away.

But the more he poked at a person’s mind, the more that
person withdrew. He had that knack. He spent his time
doing himself no good, repelling where he hoped to attract.
He was of a didactical turn of mind. He loved instructing;
and he knew so much about his subjects and was so anxious
to impart all he knew that he would go on and on and on.
It was very tiresome. Judith Was too polite to show her
boredom, so she got a lot of instruction. Sometimes he tried
when they were alone together to make her tell him her
thoughts, which would have been terribly embarrassing but
that he soon lost interest in them and turned to his own. He
himself had a great many thoughts which he threw at her
pell mcll. He had contemptuous ideas about religion. He
had just become an unbeliever, and he said 1 God ’ in quite
an ordinary unashamed conversational voice. Sometimes
she understood his thoughts, or pretended to, to save the
explanation, and sometimes she let him explain, because it
made him so pleased and enthusiastic. He would contort
himself all over with agony searching for the right, the
perfect words in which to express himself, and if he was
satisfied at the end he hummed a little tune. He loved words
passionately: he invented very good ones. Also he made the
most screamingly funny monstrous faces to amuse them all,
if he felt cheerful. Generally however, he was morose when
they were all together, and went away alone, looking as if
he despised and distrusted them. Judith discovered he did not

1 6 DUSTY ANSWER

really prefer to be alone: he liked one other person, a listener.
It made him light up impetuously and talk and talk. The
others thought him conceited, and he was; yet all the time
he was less conceited than self-abasing and sensitive, less over-
bearing than diffident. He could not laugh at himself, only
at others; and he never forgave a person who laughed at him.

He told untruths to a disconcerting extent. Judith told a
great many herself, so she was very quick to detect his, and
always extremely shocked. Once the grandmother said:

* Who broke the punt pole ? *

And they all said:

< I didn’t/

Then she said patiently:

c Well, who went punting yesterday? ’ And Martin, red
and anxious with his desire to conceal nothing cried joyfully:
c I did.’ — adding almost with disappointment: c But I didn’t
break the pole/ His truthfulness was quite painfully evi-
dent. Nobody had broken the pole.

Julian whistled carelessly for a bit after that, so Judith
knew.

Sometimes he invented dreams, pretending he had really
dreamt them. Judith always guessed when the dreams were
untruths, though often they were very clever and absurd,
just like real dreams. She made up dreams too, so he could
not deceive her. She knew the recipe for the game; and
that, try as you would, some betraying touch was bound to
creep in.

In the same way he could not deceive her about the adven-
tures he had had, the queer people he had met, plausible as
they were. Made-up people were real enough, but only in
their own worlds, which were each as different from the
world your body lived in as the people who made them were

different from each other* The others always believed him

when they bothered to listen ; they had not the imagination
to find him out Judith as a fellow artist was forced to
judge his lies intellectually, in spite of moral indignation*

DUSTY ANSWER

17

He was rather mean about sweets. Often he bought a
bagful of acid drops, and after handing them round ©nee
went away and finished them by himself. Sometimes when
Judith was with him he sucked away an 5 never once said:

‘ Have one/ But another time he bou^ ht her eightpencc
worth all to herself and took her for a beetle walk. He
adored beetles. He knew their names in Latin, and exactly
how many thousand eggs a minute they 1 iid and what they
ate, and where and how long they lived. Coming back he
put his arm round her and she was proud, though she wished
he were Charlie.

He read a lot and sometimes he was secretive about it.
He stayed in the bath room whole afternoons reading dic-
tionaries or the Arabian Nights.

He was the only one who was said to know for certain
how babies were born. When the others aired their theories
he laughed in a superior way. Then one day after they
had all been persuading him he said, surly and brief: c Well,
haven’t you noticed animals, idiots?’ And after they had
consulted amongst themselves a bit they all thought they
understood, except Martin, and Mariella had to explain
to him.

Julian played the piano better than Charlie; he played so
that it was impossible not to listen. But he was not, as
Charlie was, a pure vessel for receiving music and pouring
it forth again. Judith thought Charlie undoubtedly lapped
up music as a kitten lapped milk.

Julian said privately that he intended to write an opera.
It was too thrilling for words. He had already composed
a lovely thing called 6 Spring ’ with trills, and an imitation
of a cuckoo recurring in it. It was wonderful, — exactly
like a real cuckoo. Another composition was called c The
Dance of the Stag-Beetles. 1 That was very funny. You
simply saw the stag-beetles lumping solemnly round. It
made everybody laugh — even the grandmother. Then
Roddy invented a dance for it which was as funny as the

DUSTY ANSWER

18

music; and it became a regular thing to be done on rainy
days. Julian himself preferred c Spring.* He said it was a
bigger thing altogether.

Roddy was the queerest little boy. He was the most un-
real and thrilling of all because he was there so rarely. His
parents were not dead like Julian’s and Charlie’s, or abroad
like Martin’s or divorced and disgraced like Mariella’s.
(Mariella’s mother had run away with a Russian Pole,
whatever that was, when Mariella was a baby; and after
that her father . . . there Nurse had broken off impres-
sively "and tilted an imaginary bottle to her lips when she
was whispering about it to the housemaid.)

Roddy’s parents lived in London and allowed him to come
on a week’s visit once every holidays. Roddy scarcely ever
spoke. He had a pale, flat secret face and yellow-brown eyes
with a twinkling light remote at the back of them. He had
a ruffled dark shining head and a queer smile that you
watched for because it was not like anyone else’s. His lip
lifted suddenly off his white teeth and then turned down at
the corners in a bitter-sweet way. When you saw it you
said c Ah!’ to yourself, with a little pang, and stared, — it
was so queer. He had a trick of spreading out his hands and
looking at them, — brown broad hands with long crooked
fingers that were magical when they held a pencil and could
draw anything. He had another trick of rubbing his eyes
with his fist like a baby, and that made you say ‘ Ah ! ’ too,
with a melting, quick sort of pang, wanting to touch him.
His eyes fluttered in a strong light: they were weak and set
so far apart that, with their upward sweep, they seemed to
go round the corners and, seen in profile, to be set in his
head like a funny bird’s. He reminded you of something
fabulous — a Chinese fairy-story. He was thin and odd and
graceful; and there was a suggestion about him of secret
animals that go about by night.

Once Judith saw a hawthorn hedge in winter, shining
darkly with recent rain. Deep in the heart of its strong

DUSTY ANSWER

19

maze of twigs moved a shadowy bird pecking, darting
silently about in its small mysterious confined loneliness af-
ter a glowing berry or two. Suddenly Judith thought of
Roddy. It was ridiculous of course, but there it was: the
suggestion came of itself with the same <; jeer pull of sur-
prise and tenderness. A noiseless, intent creature moving
alone among small brilliancies in a profound maze: there
was — oh, what was there that was all of fcoddy in that?

He was so elastic, so mercurial in his movements, when he
chose, that he did not seem true. He had a way of swing-
ing down from the topmost branch of a tree, dropping
lightly, hand below hand, as if he were floating down, and
then, long before he reached the usual jumping-place, giv-
ing himself easily to the air and landing in a soft relaxed
cat-like crouch.

Once they set out to attempt the huge old fir-tree at the
edge of the garden. The thing was to get to the top before
someone below counted fifty. Julian, Mariella, Martin
tried, and failed. Then Roddy. He swung himself up and
soon after leapt out from a branch and came down again,
pronouncing it too uncomfortable and filthy to be bothered
about. Judith looked up and saw the wild swirl of twigs so
thick all the way up that no sky showed through. She said
to herself : ‘ I will! I will! * and the Spirit entered in to her
and she climbed to the top and threw a handkerchief out of
it just as Martin said fifty-seven. After that she came down
again, and received congratulations. Martin gave her his
lucky thripenny as a prize, and she was swollen with pride
because she, the youngest, had beaten them all; and in her
exaltation she thought: c I can do anything if I say I can/
and tried again that evening to fly through the power of
faith but failed.

Afterwards when she was resavouring in secret the sweet
applause they had given her she remembered that Roddy had
said nothing, — just looked at her with twinkling eyes and a
bit of his downward smile; and she thought he had probably
been laughing at her for her enthusiasm and her pride. She

20

DUSTY ANSWER

felt disillusioned, and all at once remembered her bruises
and her ruined bloomers.

Roddy had no ambition. He did not feel at all humiliated
if he failed to meet a challenge. If he did not want to try he
did not try: not because he was afraid of failing, for he knew
his power and so did everyone else; and not because he was
physically cautious, for fear was unknown to him: it was
because of the fundamental apathy in him. He lived in
bursts of energy followed by the most lethargic indifference.

When he chose to lead they all followed; but he did not
care. He did not care whether he was liked or not. He
never sought out Martin, though he accepted his devotion
kindly and did not join in the sells arranged for him. But
then he never joined in anything: he was not interested in
personal relationships.

They were all a little afraid of him, and none of them —
except Martin to whom he was as a son — liked him very
much.

The things he drew were extremely odd: long dream-like
figures with thin legs trailing after them, giants and pigmies
and people having their heads cut off, and ghosts and skele-
tons rising from graves and flapping after children; and
people doing wild dances, their limbs flying about; and
amusing monsters and hideous terrifying old women. His
caricatures were the best. The grandmother said they were
very promising. Julian was always the most successful
subject, and he minded dreadfully.

Sometimes Judith sat beside him and watched his quick
pencil. It was like magic. But always he soon gave up.
He had scarcely any interest in his drawings once they were
finished. She collected them in sheaves and took them home
to gloat over. That he could execute such things and that
she should be privileged to observe and to gather up after
him! . . . His drawings were more thrilling even than
the music of Julian and Charlie. She could play the piano
herself quite nicely, but as for drawing, — there was another
clear case of the unreliability of the Bible. However much

DUSTY ANSWER

21

you cried: ‘I can, I can! ’ and rushed, full of faith, to
pencil and paper, nothing whatever happt ned.

Once she was suddenly emboldened ar 1 said out loud the
words rehearsed silently for many weeks

‘ Now draw something for me, Rodd)

Oh, something designed from its conception for your very
own, — something which could be label ed (by yourself,
since Roddy would certainly refuse) ‘ I'rom the artist to
Judith Earle/ with the date: a token, a perpetual memorial
of his friendship ! . . .

* Oh no/ said Roddy, * I can’t.’ He threw down his
pencil, instantly bored at the suggestion, smiled and pres-
ently wandered off.

The smile took the edge off the sting, but there was an old
feeling, an oppression, as she watched him going away. It
was no use trying to bring Roddy out of his labyrinthine
seclusion with personal advances and pretensions to favour-
itism. Roddy had a power to wound far beyond his years;
he seemed grown up sometimes in his crushingness.

Now and again he was very funny and invented dances
on the lawn to make them laugh. His imitation of a
Russian ballet-dancer was wonderful. Also he could walk
on his hands or do backward somersaults into the water.
This was very thrilling and made him highly respected.

Once he and Judith were the two hares in a paper chase.
Roddy spied an old umbrella in the hedge and picked
it up. It was tattered and gaunt and huge; and there was
something friendly about it, — a disreputable reckless jollity.
He carried it for a long time, swinging it round and
round, and sometimes balancing it on his chin or spear-
ing things with it. At the top of the hill they came to
the pond covered with green stuff and a white starry froth
of flowers. All around grew flags and forget-me-nots, and
the hundred other rare enchanting trivialities of wateiy
places.

1 Well, I don’t want this old umbrella/ said Roddy. He
considered the water. < Do you? ’

22

DUSTY ANSWER

€ No. Throw it away/

He flung it. It alighted in the middle of the pond. It
stuck — oh, horror! — upright, caught in something, and
refused to sink.

4 Oh, Roddy! ’

It stared at them across the waste of waters, stark,
forlorn, reproachful. It said: c Why did you pick me
up, encourage and befriend me when this is what you
meant to do? ’

c Well, come on/ said Roddy.

They fled from it.

They fled from it, but ah! — it pursued them. From miles
away it wailed to Judith in a high thin squeak: ‘ Save me!
Save me! ’ They made excuses'to each other for spoiling
the paper chase, and going back the same way. Their
feet were compelled, driven.

The pond lay fair and flawless in the evening light. The
umbrella was drowned.

Roddy stood at the edge and bit his lip. He said:

‘ Well, I almost wish I hadn’t thrown the poor old chap
away/

She nodded. She could not speak.

The place was haunted for ever.

But what remained more deeply in her memory was the
bond with Roddy, the sharing of an emotion, the secret
sympathy. Avidly she seized upon it, and with it nourished
her immoderate ambitions. One day they would all like her
better than anyone else: even Roddy would tell her every
thing. Their lives, instead of being always remote and
mysterious would revolve intimately round her. She would
know all, all about them.

From that far off unsubstantial time Roddy’s face was
the last, the clearest, the strangest to float up.

There was a field with chalky pits in it and ripening
blackberries and wastes of gorse and bracken. The curious

DUSTY ANSWER 23

smell of the bracken rose faint but penetrating, earthy and
yet unreal, disturbing*

She was staring in horror at a dead r ibbit lying in the
path. It was stretched on its side with its tiny frail-boned
paws laid out quiet, and the tender secret white fur of its
underneath half revealed. One of th m — which? — she
could never remember — said:

c Well, I never thought I’d touch it.’

It was like hearing a person speak in a had dream.

* How did you do it? ’ said Roddy’s voice.

c Well, it was sitting, and I crept up and chucked a stone
to startle it up, not meaning to hurt it. But I must have hit
it plumb behind the ear, — I killed it outright anyway. It was
an absolute fluke. I couldn’t do it again if I tried all my life/

c Hum/ said Roddy. ‘ Funny thing/

He stood with his hands in his pockets looking down at the
corpse, making his face a mask. The sun wavered and
darkened. The surface of the bracken shone with a metallic
light, the grass was lurid, the trees hissed. Judith struggled
in a nightmare.

c Well, what shall I do with it? ’ said someone.

c I’ll see to it/ said Roddy.

Then he and she were alone. She bent down and touched
the fur. It was dead, it was dead. She fell on her knees
beside it and wept.

€ I say, don't? said Roddy after a bit. He could not
bear tears.

She wept all the more, awful sobs from the pit of the
stomach.

1 He didn’t mean it, it can’t be helped/ said Roddy. Then
after another interval:

* You know, it didn’t feel it. It died at once/

It died at once. Oh, how pathetic, how unbearable. . . .
Then again, after a long time:

* Look, we’ll take it home and give it a funeral/

He gathered huge fern-leaves and gently wrapped the

24

DUSTY ANSWER

rabbit in them. She picked it up: she would carry it, though
she almost fainted with anguish at the feel of its tender thin
body. She thought: ‘ I am holding something that’s dead.
It was alive a few minutes ago and now it’s — what is it? ’ —
and she felt choked, drowning.

They set off. Weeping, weeping she carried the rabbit
down the hill into the garden; and Roddy walked silently
beside her. He went away and dug a hole under a laurel bush
in the thickest part of the shrubbery. But when it came to
the final act, the burying, she could not bear it at all. She
was beyond all coherence now, a welter of sobs and tears.

‘ T say, don't' said Roddy again in a shaking voice.

She was suddenly quiet with shock; for he sounded on the
verge of breaking down. He cftuld not endure her grief.
Out of the corner of a sodden eye she saw his face start to
break up. Quickly she yielded the body, and he took it away.

He was gone a long time. When he came back he took
her arm and said:

‘ Come and look/

Under the laurel bush, at the head of the little mound he
had set up a beautiful tablet. It was the top of a cake tin,
smooth and clean and shining; and on it he had hammered
out with a nail the words: ‘ In memory of a Rabbit/

Peace and comfort flowed in upon her. . . .

The rabbit was under all that quiet and green gloom,
under the chill stiff polished moulding of the great laurel
leaves, no longer terrible and pathetic, but dignified with its
memorial tablet, lapped in the kind protecting earth, out of
reach of flies and boys and the mocking stare of the sun. It
was all right. There was not any sorrow.

‘Oh, Roddy! ’

He had done it to please her. Charlie would not have
done it, Martin could not have. It was a purely Roddy
gesture, so unlike him, you would have supposed, and yet,
when it was done, so recognisably his gesture and only his.
Incalculable Roddy! She remembered how when Martin
had sprained his ankle and moaned, he had hovered round

DUSTY ANSWER 25

him in distress, with a puckered face. Hr could not stand
the unhappiness and pain of people.

She wanted to kiss him, and did not da^e. She looked at
him, the whole of herself flowing toware; him in a warm
tumult of gratitude, and quickly touched his arm; and he
looked back, withdrawing himself for fea of thanks, smil-
ing his obscure downward smile. She t nought: c Shall I
never, never understand him? >

She saw the sky beginning to blossom with evening. The
sun came out below flushed clouds and all the treetops were
lit up, sombrely floating and rocking in a dark gold wash of
light. Across the river the fields looked rich and wistful,
brimming with sun, cut with long violet shadows. The river
ran a little wildly, scattered over with fierce, fire-opal flakes.
But all was softening, flattering. The clouds were drifting
away, the wind was quiet now; there would be an evening
as still, as carved as death.

She saw it all with the quivering overclear senses of
exhaustion. It was too much. Roddy’s pale face was all at
once significant, and all the others, even Charlie, floated
away while she looked at him and loved him. And as she
looked she saw the deep light falling on him and he seemed
mingled with the whole mysterious goldenness of the eve-
ning, to be part of it; and she felt herself lost with him in
a sudden dark poignant intimacy and merging, — a lifting
flood, all come and gone in a timeless moment.

But afterwards it did not seem true. She only remembered
that next time she saw him he had been quite ordinary and
indifferent, and she herself, still looking for signs and won-
ders, chilled with disappointment. Roddy as a child grew
dim after that; and the rabbit’s grave that she had meant
to tend and keep sweet with flowers through the changing
seasons, grew dim too. After a while she could not even
remember exactly where it was in all that shrubbery. The
rabbit lay forgotten.

The others faded too. She could recapture nothing more

2 6

DUSTY ANSWER

of them. They were cut off sharp in a final group on the
hillside, as if horror had in that instant made a night and
blotted them out for good.

Then the grandmother let the house and went away to
seek a less damp air for her rheumatism. Being alone came
again as the natural stuff of life, and the children next door
were gone and lost, as if they had never been.

2

Then they came again — straying so suddenly, strangely,
briefly across the timeless confusions of adolescence, that
they left behind them an even more disturbing sense of their
unreality, — an estrangement profounder than before.

It was winter — the time of the long frost and the ten
days’ skating, — the time when crossing the river to get to the
skating pool was dangerous because of the great blocks of
ice coming down with the stream. Those ten days flashed out
for ever in life, — a sparkling pure breathless intoxication of
movement and light and air that seemed each evening too
delightful to be allowed to last; and yet each succeeding
morning — she first listening to the day then fearfully peep-
ing at it — had miraculous prolongation. She prayed: Oh
God y let the skating last . Let me skate . Take not my
haffiness from me and I will love Thee as I ought . And
for ten days He hearkened unto her.

Each day she abandoned lessons and, crossing the river,
ran across the crunching frost-bound marsh to the edge of
the pond. Over and over it the people slipped, glided,
swirled with shouts of laughter in the sun. Their lips were
parted, their eyes shone, they were beautified.

She wore a white sweater and a crimson muffler. At first
people looked at her and then they began smiling at her; and
soon she was greeting all those who came regularly and
smiling at fresh strangers every day.

There was a girl who came each morning from the
London train. She was slender and fair, and she skated with

DUSTY ANSWER

27

the flying grace of a dream. Her pleated skirt swung out as
she moved, her feet in their trim boots were narrow and
small, and when she twirled her long slim igs showed to the
knee. She appeared like a goddess in the w dst of the cheer-
ful sociable incompetent herd. Judith ski'ed to and fro in
front of her every day, hoping in vain fo r a look; for she
was proud and absorbed and ardent, hold ng herself aloof
and noticing no one, skating and skating till it got dark.
One day she brought a handsome young man with her, and
to him was not at all proud and indifferent.

They waltzed, they spun, they cut figures, they ran hand
in hand, they laughed at each other; and when they rested
they sat side by side talking and smoking cigarettes. Unlike
his companion, the young man looked at Judith not once but
many times: and then he smiled at her; then he whispered
something to the goddess, and Judith’s heart beat wildly.
But the cold scornful creature merely glanced once in a
bored way, nodding and went on skating. When evening
fell and they were preparing to go he looked up from taking
off his boots as Judith passed, and radiantly smiling with
white teeth and blue eyes, said ‘ Good night. 5 That was, to
her regret, the only time she saw this handsome and friendly
young man, whose wife she would have been pleased to be.

There was an old gentleman with glasses and a grey mous-
tache who skated very sedately and who took a great deal of
trouble to teach her the outside edge. He called her ‘ my
dear *, and his eyes gazed at her from behind his glasses with
a hungry watery wistfulness. He had little if any conversa-
tion, but he would clear his throat and open his mouth as he
looked at her as if for ever on the verge of some tremendous
confidence. There was also a common but polite boy with
pimples who could skate very fast indeed and who for sev-
eral afternoons raced panting up and down the ice, while
she hung on to the belt of his Norfolk jacket, and shrieked.

The tenth morning was Saturday. The London train
brought several parties. The goddess had a little girl with
her. There were many vulgar shouting groups of incom-

28

DUSTY ANSWER

petents, and one or two quiet and moderately proficient ones*
Judith noticed a curious trio of tall slender refined looking
people — two boys and a girl. They sat on the bank and
slowly ate sandwiches. When they had finished they got
up and stood grouped together, making no movement to
adjust the skates they carried. As soon as they stood up,
Judith recognized them: Mariella, Julian and Charlie.

It had happened.

They had not changed much, but they had grown most
alarmingly. Mariella must be close on six foot. Her body
had merely been stretched out without much alteration of
the long vague curves of childhood. She hardly dared look
at the boys: they were enormous.

That vwas Charlie, really Cha'rlie, that yellow-headed
one, a little wild-looking, more beautiful than ever. . . .
She felt choked.

At that moment Mariella’s eyes fell on her. A fearful
blush and heart-beating went all through her, and she turned
hastily away. But she could feel them observing, question-
ing, conferring about her. She executed a perfect half-
circle on the outside edge, and felt that now, if they did
recognise her, she could just bear it.

Somebody was calling from the edge.

‘Hey! Hey! Hi! ’

She looked round cautiously. There was no doubt about
it. Charlie was calling her, and they were all nodding and
beckoning. They could, it seemed, easily bear to recognize
her, and the sight of her skating towards them caused them
no apparent faintness or anguish.

Charlie said rather peevishly:

* I say, how do you do it? That turn thing. Who taught
you? *

Judith’ was dumb.

‘ She doesn’t recognize us,’ said Mariella with a little
giggle. * You are Judith Earle, aren’t you? ’

‘ Oh yes. Oh, I do . Only you’ve grown so.’ She tried to
look at them and to her horror felt the tears smart under her

DUSTY ANSWER 29

eyelids, c I didn’t expect 5 Her mouti was trembling,

and she stopped in despair, hanging her hud.

It was such a shock, such a deep pang of joy and misery.
. . . They would not understand. . . . After all these
years of thinking about them, seeing them so passionately,
nursing in her imagination their unreal ai d dream-like ex-
istence, that they should all at once quite casually be there!
It was almost as if dead people were to come to life. She
prayed to be swallowed up in the ice.

c Well, you’re no pigmy,’ said Julian.

And they all laughed. Then it was all right. They
ceased to swell and waver before her eyes, settled down,
began to grow real.

‘ Well, I don’t know how it’s done,’ said Charlie, still
rather angrily looking at the ice. c Mariella, what on earth
did you drag us here for? You don’t know any more than I
do how it’s done. What a stupid waste of a day! ’ The
stress of his petulance made his voice, which was breaking,
squeak suddenly now and then, in the funniest way, so that
nobody could have taken him seriously.

‘ Well, you needn’t have come.’ Mariella’s voice was
still cool and childish. With her little smile, she turned
away from him to watch the skaters.

< And my feet are so cold I can’t feel them,’ went on
Charlie. c Three great gawps, that’s what we are, three
great gawps.’ He looked at Mariella’s back. i And Mari-
ella’s easily the gawpest.’

That seemed to unburden him, for he suddenly threw
off his bad temper and laughed.

c Put on your skates, chaps,’ he said. * We’ll do our
damndest.’

He began to whistle and sat down, struggling with his
boots.

c Judith shall show us how it’s done. She is so extremely
able.’ He looked at her, giving her his attention for the first
time, and charmingly smiled. His eyes were amazing when
they looked full at you — brilliant, icy-blue, a little too wide

DUSTY ANSWER

30

open. His long red girlish lips still parted a trifle in repose;
and the whole head had a breath-taking extravagance of
beauty.

c How are you, Judith? ’ he said. c Do you remember the
dear old days? ’

‘ Yes, I do.’

What self-possession he had! She was not up to him. He
lost interest in her, and went on with his boots, fiercely
whistling.

c {)o you really still live here, Judith? ’ said Mariella.
c Yes, really. Where do you live? ’
i Well, we’re in London now. Grannie moved there to
be near my school. Where do ydu go to school? ’

c I don’t. I have classes by myself with a man who
coaches boys for Oxford and Cambridge. He’s a vicar. And
then I have music lessons from a person who comes from
London, and Daddy teaches me Greek and Latin. My
Mother and Father don’t believe in girl’s schools.’ That
sounded rude and priggish. She blushed and added. c But
I do. It’s awfully dull by myself.’

c Why don’t you get your Mother to send you to my
school? ’ said Mariella. 6 It’s ripping fun. You could come
up to London every day.’

c Mariella loves her school,’ said Julian. c It’s toffing .
She doesn’t learn anything and plays hockey all day. Judith’s
parents want her to be educated , Mariella. You don’t un-
derstand. Isn’t that so, Judith? ’

Judith blushed again and was afraid it was so.

* 1 believe in female education,’ muttered Julian to his
boots.

They had become extremely queer creatures as they grew
up, thought Judith. The boys especially were very peculiar,
with their height and pallor and their trick of over-em-
phatic speech. Julian was immensely tall and cadaverous,
with a stormy, untidy, hideous face, and eloquent eyes that
seemed always to be changing colour in their deep sockets.

DUSTY ANSWER 31

He actually had lines in his cheeks, anti his nose was be-
coming hooked, with dilated, back-sweepmg nostrils.

c Well, I wish you’d come,’ said Marie! la unruffled, after
a silence. < It’s ripping. You’d love it.’

It was nice of Mariella to be so frieidly and pressing.
Perhaps she had always been very fond i f you, had missed
you. . . . Judith’s heart warmed.

c I wish you’d come back and live here, Mariella. It was
so lovely when you did.’

6 I’d like to,’ said Mariella complacently. c P’raps we
will some day. If Grannie’s rheumatism would only get
better we might come every summer.’

c But it never will get better,’ said Julian. c Not at her
age.’

The boots were all on at last, the skates fastened. They
got up and wobbled out a fcw| inches on to the ice. There
was a chorus of ‘ Hell! ’ c Wow! ’ * Goodness! ’

Charlie slipped up with a crash, Mariella followed him.
6 It’s beastly,’ he said furiously. c You can’t keep your
skates still. I think I’ve broken my wrist. I shall go home.’
The others took no notice. They wobbled further and
further out, giggling. They were too tall and thin to bal-
ance properly, and their ankles kept on betraying them.

* Come and help us, Judith,’ screamed Julian. c We’ve
never skated before in our lives . We can’t stof . We’re too
thin to be allowed to fall down.’

They were dragging each other on helplessly.
c Come here / wailed Charlie. c Judith, come and help
me to stand. Shan’t we fall in? Are you sure it’s safe? My
feet are frozen .’

Judith giggled as she went from one to the other encour-
aging, admonishing, supporting. The three ridiculous
sillies! They enjoyed their silliness, they enjoyed making
her laugh, they were not a bit frightening after all. Never,
never since she had bidden them good-bye years ago had been
such warm and bubbling happiness. Everything delightful
was really starting at last.

DUSTY ANSWER

32

As they began to improve they became ambitious. They de-
clared their desire to learn fancy skating, and Charlie swore
he would cut a figure of eight before the day was out; and
all the time they were simply no good at all. Out of the cor-
ner of an eye Judith saw the old gentleman and the boy in
the Norfolk jacket wistfully looking on, and she ignored
them.

c Now, come along Marietta,’ said Charlie. c Take hands
like this, crossed, and we’ll go for a glide.’ They sailed
rather haltingly away.

Uilder Marietta’s blue wool cap the dark short hair curled
softly upwards now, longer than the boyish crop of yore.
Her face had preserved its pure and innocent mask. She
was laughing, not as other people laughed, unreservedly in
the enjoyment of physical pleasures, but rather as if she were
making a concession to Charlie’s mood, and found the aban-
donment of laughter alien to her. There was still the curi-
ous likeness between the two clear bloodless faces, though
Charlie’s was forever changing with quick emotions and
Marietta’s was still, empty almost. They would understand
each other, thought Judith. In spite of the friction that used
to go on between them, they had always been more obvi-
ously, more oppressively blood-relations than any other
members of the circle. With years the bond had become
even more subtly defined.

Julian was left out. He had never taken any notice of
Marietta, yet he had always been the one upon whom her
light gaze had dwelt with a faint difference, as if it meant to
dwell. In the old days it had sometimes seemed as if she
would have been pleased — really pleased, not just indiffer-
ently agreeable as she generally was — if Julian had offered
to take her for a beetle-walk. She appeared to have a slight
respectful interest in him, and a manner which suggested,
though only to a remorseless watcher, that she would have
valued his good opinion. It still seemed so. When he wbs
teasing her about her school, her eyes, uncertain yet dwell-

DUSTY ANSWER 33

ing, had fallen on him a moment; but now, as formerly,
you could detect no affection between thorn.

c We wondered if we should meet you/ said Julian shyly.
c I’m so glad we did.’

Then they had not completely forgotten. She blessed him
for the assurance, which only he would I ave given.

c I couldn’t believe it was you,’ she said. ‘ I didn’t think
I’d ever see you again. I did miss you ;Tter you went. I
thought perhaps Martin might write to me, but he didn’t.
How is Martin? ’

c He’s all right. We don’t see him so much now. His
people are back from Africa and he spends most of the
holidays with them.’ He smiled and added: c I remember
Martin was terribly devoted to you. I must tell him I’ve
seen you.’

c And where’s Roddy? ’

c Oh, Roddy. . . . He’s all right. He’s in London.
Roddy’s very grown up: he’s having dancing lessons.’
Julian snorted.

c Does he still draw ? ’

c I don’t know. Should think he’s too lazy.’

Julian had never liked Roddy.

c Do you still compose, Julian? ’

c Oh, do you remember that? ’ He smiled with pleasure.

c Of course. The “ Stag-Beetles ” Dance. And
cc Spring with the Cuckoo in it.” ’

* Oh, that rot. Fancy your remembering! ’ He looked
at her in just the old way, amused but interested, thinking
well of her.

4 1 thought it was beautiful. Have you written any-
thing lately? ’

‘ No. No time. I’ve given it all up. I’ve been working
like mad for a scholarship. P’raps I’ll take to it again a
bit at Oxford.’

He seemed to have become enthusiastic about it all at once,
encouraged by her interest. He had not changed much.

€ And did you get your scholarship? ’

DUSTY ANSWER

34

1 Yes. Balliol. I go up next year. 5 He was being brief
and modest, actually blushing. But Balliol meant nothing
to her: she was thinking of his great age.

€ You must be eighteen.’

‘ Yes.’

• D’you know, I remember all your birthdays.’

As she said it she almost cried again, it seemed such a
confession of long-cherished vain hope and love. He stared
at her, ready to be amused, and then, seeing her face, looked
away suddenly, as if he half-understood and were aston-
ished, ^embarrassed, touched.

1 Oh, look at those two,’ he said quickly.

Charlie had taken off his coat, and they were holding it
up as a sail. With a pang of dismay Judith realized for the
first time the ominous strength of the wind. It filled
the coat full, and Mariella and Charlie, bearing it high in
front of them, went sailing straight across the pond. They
could not stop. They shrieked in laughter and agony and
went ever faster. They were borne to the pond’s edge,
stubbed their skates and fell violently in a heap on the grass.

Charlie lay on his back and moaned.

c I’ve got a pain. I’ve got a pain. Oh, Mariella! Oh,
God! Oh, all you people! The anguish, the sensation! —
like the Scenic Railway — transports of horror and bliss. I
thought: Never, never shall we stop. We went faster,
and fas . . . Oh, Mariella, your face ... I shall
die . . . .*

He writhed with laughter, the tears poured down his

face. < I t-tried to say: drop the c 1 hadn’t any voice —

Oh, what a feeling! . . . those skimming dreams. . . .
O God! ’

He shut his eyes exhausted.

Then soon he had to try again. Then they all tried,
and were a nuisance to the other skaters. Every one looked
at Charlie, and nobody was annoyed because of his beauty
and radiant spirits, and his charming apologies when he got
in the way.

DUSTY ANSWER

35

Judith ached with giggling; even M iriella and Julian
were wiping their eyes. Charlie Was excited that he
looked quite feverish. In his enthusiasm he threw his arms
wide and cried:

‘ Oh, darlings! 5 — and Judith was tl rilled because she
felt herself included in the endearment.

‘You know , 5 said Julian, ‘you’ll be sick to-night,
Charlie, if you go on like this . 5

So he was still the one to be sick.

A small cold mongrel dog came shivering, wriggling
across the ice and rolled over before him, waving limp
deprecatory paws. Charlie picked it up and wtapped it in
his coat, crooning to it and kissing it.

‘ Oh, what sweet paws you have, my chap. Mariella,
his paws are particularly heart-breaking. Do look, — all
blunt and tufted and uncontrolled. Don’t they melt you?
Poor chap, — darling chap. You come along with me for
a skate . 5

He skated away with the dog in his arms, talking his
special foolish language to it, and colliding with people at
every other step.

Oh, he was strange, thought Judith, looking after him.
She had no key to him: she could only dissect him and make
notes, learn him by heart and marvel at him, — never hope
to meet him some day suddenly, at a chance look, a trifling
word, with that secret “ Ah ! 55 — that shock of inmost
mysterious recognition, as she had once met Roddy.

She thought of Roddy dancing in London, urban and
alarming. She saw him distinctly, his dark head, his yellow-
ish pallor, his smile; and wished wildly that he had come
instead of Charlie: Charlie who troubled her, made her
heavy-hearted with the burden of his lavish indifferent
brilliance.

The sharp, blue and white afternoon was paling to sunset.
The pond flashed and glittered with empty light. In the
middle rose the clump of withered flags, dry starved grasses
and marsh plants, berried bushes and little willows, — the

DUSTY ANSWER

36

whole a blur of pastel shades, purplish-brown, fading green,
yellow and russet, with here and there a burning shred of
isolated colour, — a splash of crimson, a streak of gold. The
whirr and scratch of skates murmured on the air, and the
skaters wove without pause, swiftly, lightly, like flics on a
ceiling. Beneath the ice the needling grass-blades and the
little water-weeds were still, spellbound; outspread stiffly,
delicately in multitudinous and infinitesimal loveliness.

As she stood alone gazing down at them Julian came back
to her side and said:

‘ Do you ever come to London ? ’

1 Hardly ever. If Daddy’s at home he generally takes
me to a theatre at Christmas; and now and then I go with
Mamma for clothes.’ ♦

‘ Well, you’d better come up some time soon and we’ll
go to a play. Fix it with Mariella.’

‘Oh! ’

It couldn’t be true, — it could never happen.

There was a scratch and stumble of skates, and the other
two came to a wavering halt in front of them.

‘ We must go,’ said Mariella.

‘ Judith’s coming to go to a play with us/ said Julian.

‘ Oh, good/ said Mariella, not interested.

‘When? ’ snapped Julian. ‘Fix it/

‘ I don’t know/ she said, with a quick glance at him.
‘ We must ask Grannie. I’ll ask Grannie, Judith, and let
you know to-morrow/

‘ Because we’re coming back to-morrow/ broke in
Charlie. ‘ Julian, we must, mustn’t we? Will you be
here, Judith? 5

‘ Oh yes/

‘ That’s good, because I shall need you. I need thee
every hour. I shall have forgotten my breast-stroke by
to-morrow. I do believe if we hadn’t found you, Judith,
we should never have stepped on to the ice at all. We
should just have looked at it and faded gracefully back to
London. We are so very silly/

BUSTY ANSWER 37

He sat down to take off his boots, and h gan whistling: —
then burst out singing:

‘ There were three sillies
Who stood like lilies ’

A pause —

‘Re fusing to spin *

Another pause —

‘Crying, Hey, Lackaday!

The ice will give way,

And we shall fall in ’

He pulled off his boots; and finished:

‘ If Miss Earle they’d not met
They’d be standing there yet.’

‘ Pretty poor/ cried Julian.

‘ Oh, I think it’s awfully good/ said Judith.

Charlie bowed, and said:

‘ I can do more like that.*

‘ Go on, then/

‘ Not now. Pouf! I’m tired/

He looked it. Save for the bright flush on each check
his pallor was startling. His eyes looked dark in their
shadowy rings, and he leaned back against Mariella while
she gravely fastened his shoes and buttoned up his coat.
When she put on his muffler he dragged it off again, crying:
4 Oh, Mariella. No! I’m so hot/

* You’re to wear it/ she said quietly. ‘You’ll catch
cold/ and she wound it round his neck again, while he
submitted and made faces at her, his eyes laughing into
hers, like a child coaxing an elder to smiles.

Watching him, Judith thought:

DUSTY ANSWER

38

* Are you conceited and spoilt? ’

All that gaiety and proud indifference, all that uncon-
scious-seeming charm, that confident chatter — all might be
the product of a complete self-consciousness. Surely he must
look in the glass and adore his own reflection. She remem-
bered her old dream of marrying him, and thought with a
Vast sorrowful prophetic sense of the many people who
would yearn to him silently for love, while he went on
his way, wanting none of them.

Against the dusk, his head, his face shone as if palely lit.

Narrowly she watched him; but there was no sign for
her: all that brilliance of expression glancing and pausing
around him, and nothing for her beyond a light smile or
two, a casual appreciation of her temporary uses. He and
Mariclla had scarcely once said: 1 Do you remember? ’ If
they still cherished any of the past she was not in it. It
was strange to think of such indifference, when they, with
the other three, were all the pattern, all the colour and
richness that had ever come into life.

In the dying light their mystery fell over them again,
and they were as unattainable as ever. If only with the rare
quality of their physical appearance they must always enslave
her; and she felt worn out with the stress of them.

‘ To-morrow/ said Charlie, i we’ll bring Roddy/

c Yes. Come on/ said Mariella. ‘We must hurry for
our train/

They tramped in silence across the cold solitude of the
marsh, and the wind came after them, keen and menacing.
When they arrived at the river’s edge, Charlie stood still,
and looked across, saying dreamily:

‘ There’s a light in the old house. I suppose that’s the
caretaker person. We might look in to-morrow and sur-
prise her. Doesn’t it look lonely? ... I wish we would
live there again. Where’s your house, Judith? I thought
it was next door/

*So it is, but the trees hide it/

€ Oh yes, I’d forgotten/

DUSTY ANSWER

39

Then she ferried them across the river in the punt, and
parted from them on the other side, when; the lane to the
station branched off.

c Well, see you to-morrow/

Julian looked up at the sky.

c I believe it’s thawing/ he said. c I believe it’ll rain
in the night/

c Rot! 9 said Charlie. c Why — feel tht ground/
c Yes, but the air’s milder. And look at the sky/

To the east and north the frosty stars pointed their darts;
but in the smoky, tumultuous west, black clouds devoured
the last of the sun.

Panic seized Judith, and she hated Julian, wanted to
strike him.

* Rot! that doesn’t mean anything,’ said Charlie uneasily.
c And listen to the wind/

The wind was in the treetops, full and relentless, and
driving the clouds.

c Oh, shut up! * said Charlie. ‘Can’t there be a wind
without a thaw? And come on, can’t you, or we’ll miss
our train/

c Good-night then/

‘ G’night, Judith. We’ll look out for you/
c I’ll be there/
c Goo’night/

€ Good-night/

Judith ran home, shutting eyes to the clouds, ears to
the wind, and with the slam of the front door behind
her striving to ignore the God of envy, hatred, malice
and all uncharitableness whose portents were abroad in
the sky.

< To-morrow they are coming again and bringing Roddy.
To-morrow I shall see Roddy. O God, be merciful! 9
• ••••••

Towards dawn she woke and heard the blind, drearily
sighing, futile hurry and hiss of the rain, — and said aloud
in the darkness: ( How; can I bear it? 9

40

DUSTY ANSWER

Yet lured by sick fantastic hope she crossed the river that
morning and made her way to the pond.

There was nobody there, save one small boy, sliding upon
the ice through several inches of water and throwing up
before him in his swift career two separate and divided
fountains.

Then that was the end. They were lost again. They
would not come back, they would not write, she would never
go to London to see them. Even Julian would forget about
her. They did not care, the rain was glad, there was nothing
in the wide world to give her comfort. She turned from the
rain-blurred place where their unreal lost images mocked
at and confused her, — dreams within the far-off dream of
happy yesterday.

3

It was some time in the middle of the war that she knew
for certain that Julian was at the front. She heard it from
the old next door gardener, who had given her apples and
pears long ago, and it was from the grandmother herself
that he knew it. She had written to tell him to plant fresh
rose-buds and to keep the tennis lawn in perfect order, for
very soon, directly the war was over, the grandchildren were
to have the house for their own, as a place for week-ends
and holidays.

Mr. Julian was at the front, safe so far, God be thanked,
and Mr. Charlie had just been called up; but the fighting,
so the grandmother said, would be over before ever he
went to France.

Then, nourished afresh on new hopes, desires, and terrors^
the children next door came back night after night in dreams.

Julian in uniform came suddenly into the library. He
said:

‘ I’ve come to say good-bye.’

‘Good-bye? Are you going back to the front? *

‘Yes. In a minute. Can’t you hear my train? 9

She listened and heard the train-whistle.

DUSTY ANSWER 4 1

‘ Charlie’s going too — He’ll be here in a minute. Good-
bye, Judith.’

She put out her hand and he took it an I then bent down
with a sort of grin and kissed her. He sai : :

€ That’s what men do when they’re go ng to the front.’

She thought with pleasure: 4 Then Ch; die will want to
kiss me too;’ and she looked out of the w ndow, hoping to
see him.

It was impenetrably dark, and she thought anxiously:
‘ He won’t be able to find his way. He always hated the
dark.’

‘ Come on,’ said Julian. ‘You must come and wave
good-bye to me.’

But still she delayed and peered out, looking with grow-
ing panic for Charlie.

All at once she saw him in the darkness outside. He was
not in uniform, but in grey flannel shorts and a white shirt
open at the neck, — the clothes of his childhood. He trailed
himself haltingly, as if his feet hurt him.

‘ Sh! ’ said Julian in her ear. ‘ He’s disguised himself.’

‘Ah, then he won’t get killed. . . .’

‘ No.’

She caught sight of his face. It was a terrible disguise, —
the shrivelled, yellow mask of an ancient cretin. He looked
at her vacantly, and she thought with a pang: ‘ Ah! I must
pretend I don’t know him.’

He passed out of sight with his queer clothes and his limp
and his changed face, — all the careful paraphernalia of his
travesty. Looking at him, she was seized with sudden
horror. There was something wrong: they would see
through it.

She tried to reach him, to warn him; but she was voiceless
and he had disappeared.

It was Charlie himself, so the old gardener said, who
wrote to tell him that he and Mariella were to be married.
Master Charles had always been the beloved one, — the one

DUSTY ANSWER

42

to be ready with a smile and a pleasant word, and never a bit
of haughtiness for all his Grannie made such a little prince
of him.

4 And when this old war’s over, Lacey,’ he says, 4 we’ll
be coming back to live in the dear old house. Grannie wants
us to,’ he says, 4 and you may be sure we want to. We
were never ones to like London. So look out for us before
long.’ But ah! he had to come through the fighting first.
They were to get married at once, for he Was off to the
front. Speaking for himself, said the old gardener, he’d have
had enough of life if anything happened to Master Charlie.

The next day, the announcement of their marriage at a
registry office appeared in the 44 Times.”

4 Why, they can’t be more thtin nineteen,’ said Mamma,
4 and first cousins, too. A dreadful mistake. However, I

suppose the chances are ’ and she sighed, settling her

V.A.D. cap before the mirror. 4 I must write to the old
lady. They were good-looking children — one of them
especially. Why don’t you send a nice little note to the girl,
Judith? You used to play together such a lot.’

4 Oh, she wouldn’t remember me,’ said Judith, and went
quickly away, sick with shock.

Married, those two. Mariella a wife: Mrs. Charles Fyfe.

4 1 am young Mrs. Fyfe. This is Charlie, my husband.’

How 4 had it happened?

4 Mariella, you must marry me, you must, you must. Oh,
Mariella, I do want to marry you, and I’m going to the front
so I do think I might be allowed to have what I want. I may
be killed and I shan’t have had anything out of life. Oh,
Mariella, please! You know you’re happiest with us,
Mariella. You couldn’t marry anyone outside and leave
us all, could you? Nor could I. I couldn’t bear to be
touched by any other woman. You and I understand each
other so well we couldn } t be unhappy. We are different
from other people, you know. Marry me and I’ll come
back from the War. But if you say no I’ll just go out and
let myself be killed at once. . •

DUSTY ANSWER

43

And Mariella, pale and childish and not understanding,
went away. She went — yes — to Julian, and looking at him
full with her dazed look said: ‘Charlie has asked me to
marry him/ He said not a word, but looked dark and
shrugged his shoulders and turned awaj as who should
reply: ‘What is that to me? * So Mariella went straight
back to Charlie and said:

‘ All right/

Her mouth quivered and she nearly cried then, but not
quite: neither then nor afterwards. And the grandmother
wept bitterly, till in the end Charlie comforted her; and after
that, implacably she would give and sacrifice all to Charlie.

No, no, that was too stupid, too abnormal. People only
behaved like that in your unbalanced imagination.

Mariella would never have wept, never have gone to
Julian, never dreamed of being in love with him, — him or
Charlie or any one else you would have thought, childless,
sexless creature that she had always seemed, years behind
you in development. How she must have changed to be
now liable to passion! All at once she had to be thought
of as a woman, the gulf of marriage fixed between you
and her.

Had she consented then in her usual placidly agreeable
way, just to oblige Charlie, without a notion of what it
meant to be in love and marry? Had she gradually fallen in
love with him during all the years they were growing up to-
gether, or had it been suddenly, with a shock of realization,
when he told her he was going to France? Or had he come
home one day excited, full of emotion at the thought of
what lay ahead for him, and found her looking beautiful,
strange, and thrilling to his troubled eyes, and taken her sud-
denly in his arms, charming her into his own illusion of love?

Or had it been gentle and certain all the time, — an idyll?

6 My dear, you know I shall never love anyone but
you/

6 Nor I anyone but you/

4 [Then let’s marry before I go/

44

DUSTY ANSWER

* Oh yes, — at once/

So they married, with all the others gentle and certain,
and acquiescent as a matter of course, saying, whatever
their secret thoughts: ‘ Ah well, it had to be/

They would spend their few days contentedly together,
saying quietly: ‘If anything should happen we shall have
had this happiness at least: ’ their few nights. . . .

When people married they slept in the same room, perhaps
in the same bed: they wanted to. Mariclla and Charlie
would sleep together: that would be the only change for them
who had lived in the same house since childhood and knew
all about each other. Why had they wanted to make that
change — what had impelled them to seek from each other
another intimacy? Charlie’s beauty belonged to someone
now: Mariclla of all people had claims upon it. She might
have a baby, and Charlie would be its father. . . .

It was all so queer and unhappy, so like the dreams from
whose improbabilities she woke in heaviness of spirit, that it
was impossible to realize. This thing had happened and she
was further than ever from them, perplexed in the outer
darkness, unremembered, unwanted, nothing at all. She
might hold on all her life but they would never be drawn
back to her.

She was certain now that Charlie was going to be killed.
There was that in the fact of his marriage, of his leaping to
fulfil the instincts of normal man for life which proclaimed
more ominously by contrast the something, — the fatal excess
— that foredoomed him; which made darker the shadow
falling ever upon the bright thing coming to confusion.

There seemed nothing now in life but a waiting for his
death.

They came and came in her dreams — some that caused
her to wake with the happiness of a bird, thinking for a
moment: ‘ Then he’s safe . . . ; ’ others that made her
start into bleak consciousness, heavy with the thought that
he was even now dead.

DUSTY ANSWER

45

There were dreams of Mariella with a child in her arms;
of Mariella and Charlie walking silently up and down, up
and down the lawn next door, like lovers, their arms about
each other, and kissing as they walked. Then Mariella
w‘ould turn into Judith, and very soon the whole thing
would go wrong: Charlie would cease to walk up and down
like a lover, and falter and disappear.

She dreamed of standing in the doorwav of the old next
door schoolroom looking out into the hall. Between the
inner glass doors and the outer white-painted wooden ones,
in the little passage where tubs of hydrangeas and red and
white lilies stood upon a mosaic floor, Mariella was talking
to one of the boys. She must be saying good-bye to Charlie.
The back of her neck was visible, the short curls tilting back
as she lifted her head to him. Tall and shadowy, faceless,
almost formless, he bent over her, and mysteriously, silently
they conferred; and she watched, hidden in the doorway.
Suddenly Mariella broke away and ran past through the hall.
Her face was white and wild, streaming with tears; she
bowed it right forward in her hands and fled up the stairs.

4 Oh, look! Mariella is crying for the first time in her
life. . . .’

In the doorway the dark figure still stood. It turned and
all at once had a face; and was not Charlie but Julian. She
sprang back thinking: c He mustn’t see me here, spying; ’
and in the agitation of trying to slip away unobserved, the
dream broke.

There was a dream of playing some game among them
all in the next door garden, and of Charlie stopping sud-
denly, and crawling away with a weak fumbling step, his
hand on his heart.

4 He’s got a weak heart.’

c Ah, then he won’t go to the front/

4 No, he’s quite safe.’

She woke up happy.

But sometimes Charlie had been to the front and had
come back with that feebleness and sickness upon him. He

DUSTY ANSWER

4 6

was going to die of it. He came all pale into the schoolroom
and stopped, leaning against the big oak cupboard. He put
his hand on his heart, sighing and moaning, looking about
him in appalling distress. He said:

c I feel ill. I don’t know what it is. ... I’d like to
consult my brother/

He had the face of a stranger, an emaciated and elderly
man, — nobody in the least like Charlie; but it was he. He
shuffled out again, almost too weak to move, looking for
Julian, who would not come. In horror-struck groups the
others watched him. He was dying beyond a doubt. She
woke, aghast.

It was at the close of a day in February. Outside, where
the gentle dusk glimmered on rain-wet branches, the bird-
calls were like sudden pale jets of light, coming achingly to
the mind; and all at once the sun, like a bell, struck out a
poignant richness, a long dark-golden evening note with
tears in it, searching all the land with its fullness and dying
slowly into an obscurer twilight. The tree-tops were quiet
against the sky. There was no leaf upon them: yet, in that
liquid mauve air they stirred in her a sudden soft pang, a
beating of the heart, and were, for a moment, the whole
of the still hidden spring.

She stood staring through the window; axid wars and
rumours of wars receded, dwindling into a little shadow
beyond the edge of the enchanted world.

She went out into the garden, towards the river. Ah,
these shapely boughs, this smell of buds, that tenderly-trail-
ing blue smoke from the rubbish heap, this air like clear
greenish water, washing in luminous tides, those few stars
cast up and glowing upon translucent strands between the
riven pale deeps of clouds! . . . Bearing her ecstasy deli-
cately, she came to the bottom of the garden, where the
connecting pathway ran towards the house next door. She
heard a heavy trailing step she knew, and she waited to bid
good-night to the old gardener coming home from work.

DUSTY ANSWER

47

€ Good-night, Lacey.*

His mumbling voice said from the shadows:

‘ Good-night, Missie.*

{ Lovely evening, Lacey.*

‘ Ah, grand.*

c How does your garden look next door? *

‘ Ah, a bit forward. There’ll be f rests later, you may
be bound.*

He sounded tired to-night; he was getting very old. Now
for the customary last question.

< When are they coming back, Lacey ? It’s high time,
isn’t it? *

He paused ; then said :

c You maybe won’t have heard, Miss. . . .*

4 What? *

c Master Charlie’s been killed. . . . Yes, Miss. We
*ad word from London this afternoon. Ah, it’s cruel. It’ll
about kill his Grannie, that’s wot I sez first thing — about
kill her it will. He was the apple of her eye. That’s what
we all said — the apple of her eye. She says to me once she
says: “Lacey,” she says, “ Master Charlie’ll live ’ere when
I’m gorn. I’m keepin* the place on for *im,” she says.
“ It shall never be let nor nothing. It’s ’is, for *im to bring
’is wife to. Ah, pore little Miss Mariella, pore soul. . . .”
He broke into feeble weeping. “Ah, it’ll about be the death
of *is Grannie. Pore Master Charlie — pore little chap . . .
everybody’s favourite. I remember *im when *e was . . .
Yes, Missie, yes, Miss Judith . . .*

His voice failed; and with a hand touching his hat over
and over again in mechanical apology, confused distress and
appeal, he went shuffling away into the shadows.

But of course, of course he was dead; she had expected
it all the time. Now it had happened she could turn to other
things. She thought: 4 It’s not bad now; it’ll be worse
later: then some time it will stop. I must bear it — bear it —
bear it! *

48

DUSTY ANSWER

That wheezing voice echoed in the solitude and com-
plained: i Pore Master Charlie, pore little chap/ over and
over again through the dark lane among the poplars, above
the wall of the garden where the poor little boy had lived
long ago.

Had he really lived? Forget him, forget him. He was
only a shadow any way, a romantic illusion, a beautiful
plaything of the imagination: nothing of importance. Put
him away, be sensible, be indifferent, gather round you once
again the imperturbable mysteries of nature, be blinded and
made deaf with them for ever. He was much better dead.
He was weak and spoilt, selfish; he wouldn’t have been any
good. . . . He never could bear blood: he must be thank-
ful to be dead.

Where was he ? He seemed to be near, listening to what
you had to say of his death.

‘ Charlie, my darling, if only you’d known how I loved
you! ’

c I know now. I shall always be watching you/

Then there is no cause for weeping: he is alive, he is in
God’s keeping. “ Lord, into thy hands I commend his
spirit/’ What did that mean? Pretend, pretend to believe
it, cover the blankness with confident assertions.

What had become of that shining head? How did he
look now?

At this very moment they were all weeping for Charlie
shot dead in France. It was really true: he was dead and in
the earth, he had vanished for ever. Her mind wavered and
fainted under the burden of their grief : her own she could
endure, but theirs was intolerable.

She went back, out of the unregarding night, to the
Greek verbs which must be learnt by to-morrow.

A long time after, came the last terrible dream.

They were all bathing together from the next door raft,
in a sort of dim luminous twilight. She saw her own white
legs reaching out to touch the water; and she stepped in

DUSTY ANSWER

49

and swam about. Roddy was there, a lark head bobbing
vaguely near her. Sometimes he touche * her hand or her
shoulder, smiling at her in a friendly way. The others
made a dim group on the bank. They w re all very happy:
she felt ecstasy swelling within her, am passing from her
among them all.

Charlie suddenly came into the group. Oh, there was
Charlie safe and well and alive after all, and nobody need
be unhappy any more!

He did not speak. He emerged swiftly from among them,
and they all watched him in silence while he stooped to the
dim river and slipped in. He turned his face, his hidden
face, downstream, and went floating and swimming gently
along. He too was happy.

A dark misty solitude of night and water was ahead of
him, and he went into it without pause or backward look,
and it folded around him. Horror crept in: for he was dis-
appearing.

A voice broke ringingly, in anguish:

c Come back! ’

It shattered itself, aghast, upon emptiness.

Softly he vanished.

She cried aloud and woke into a night streaming, blind
with the rain’s enormous weeping.

He never came again.

His son was born and his grandmother died; but he was
too far, too spent a ghost to raise his head at that.

PART TWO

PART TWO

i

T HEY were coming back. When she knew this she
dared not venture beyond the garden for fear of
encountering them unexpectedly. Only he dark was safe;
and night after sleepless night she jumped out of the kitchen
window into the garden, and crossed the lawn’s pattern of
long tree-shadows, sharp-cut upon the blank moon-blanched
level of the grass. All the colours were drained away;
only the white spring flowers in the border shone up with
a glimmer as of phosphorus, and the budding tree-tops were
picked out, line by cold line, in a thin and silvery wash of
light.

She went dancingly down the garden, feeling moon-
changed, powerful and elated; and paused at the river’s
edge. The water shone mildly as it flowed. She scanned it
up and down; it was deserted utterly, it was hers alone. She
took off her few clothes and stepped in, dipping rapidly; and
the water slipped over her breasts, round her shoulders, cov-
ering all her body. The chill water wounded her; her
breath came shudderingly, in great gasps; but after a mo-
ment she started to swim vigorously downstream. It was
exquisite joy to be naked in the water’s sharp clasp. In com-
parison, the happiness of swimming in a bathing suit was
vulgar and contemptible. To swim by moonlight alone was
a sacred and passionate mystery. The water was in love with
her body. She gave herself to it with reluctance and it em-
braced her bitterly. She endured it, soon she desired it; she
was in love with it. Gradually its harshness was appeased,
and it held her and caressed her gently in her motion.

Soon next door loomed lightless among its trees. If they
were there, they were all sleeping. No eyes would be staring
in the darkness, gazing at the enchanted water, wondering
at the dark object moving upon its surface.

But no, they had not come yet: the moon came from

53

54

DUSTY ANSWER

behind a cloud and illumined the face of the great house;
and it was grief-stricken as ever, bowed down with the
burden of its emptiness. She turned back and swam home.

The night of full moon came, warm and starry. As
she swam towards the willows at the far edge of the next-
door garden, — her usual goal — she saw lights in the win-
dows. The long house spread itself peacefully under the
moon, throwing out its muffled warmth of lamplight like a
quiet smile.

So they had come.

Somebody might be in the garden, — on the river even.
She clung close under the bank, by a willow stump, not
daring to move, feeling her strength ebb from her.

Then all at once their forms, their voices were near her.
Somebody started to play a nocturne of Faure: Julian.
Before her she saw someone tall, in a pale frock, walking
along the lawn: Mariclla. A moment after a man’s
figure came from the shadows and joined hers. Which
was he? The twin glow of their cigarettes went ahead
of them as they paced slowly, arm in arm, across the lawn,
just as Charlie and Mariella had often paced in the
dreams.

They were so near they must in a moment look down and
see her; but they passed on a few steps and then paused,
looking out over the river, and up at the resplendent moon.
The piano stopped, and soon another figure came and joined
them. They were three tall shadows: their faces were in-
distinguishable.

4 Hullo! 5 said the small clear unchanged voice of Mari-
ella, c I can’t understand your music, Julian. Nor can
Martin, can you, Martin? ’

4 Well it’s so damned dull. No tune in it.’

Julian’s brief laugh came for answer.

It was like all the dreams to listen to these voices drop-
ping, muted but distinct, from invisible lips close to you in
the dark, saying trivial things that seemed important because
of the strangeness and surprise of the meeting.

DUSTY ANSWER

55

‘ Why don’t you,’ said Martin, ‘ play nice simple whole-
some things that we can have on the br^in and hum and
whistle all day? ’

‘I’m not simple and wholesome enough to do them
justice. I leave them to your masterly right index, Martin.’

‘ Martin’s the world’s finest one-finger man, aren’t you ?. 9
from Mariella, teasing, affectionate.

‘ Where’s Roddy? ’

‘ He went off alone in the canoe.’

‘ How romantic,’ said Mariella.

There was a groan.

‘ Mariella, why will you ’

‘ What? 9

‘ Quack,’ said Julian. ‘You must think before you
speak.’

She laughed.

‘Good-night,’ she said. ‘ I’m going to bed. When you
come upstairs mind and be quiet past the nursery. Re-
member it’s not your nursery but Peter’s now. Nannie’ll
warm your jacket if you wake him again, Martin.’

Her cigarette end hit the water a few inches from Judith.
Her whitish form grew dim and was gone.

‘What a night! 9 said Julian, after a silence. ‘The
moon is a most theatrical designer.’

The two strolled on, — none too soon, for the water was
glacial to her cramped body, her fingers were rigid upon the
willow-roots, and her teeth were rattling in her head.

She heard from Martin:

‘When I was in Paris with Roddy ’

And then after a long pause, Julian’s voice suddenly
raised: ‘But what if you bored yourself . . . day after
day ... to myself: Christ! You bloody bore . . .’

The voices sank into confusion and ceased; but in the
ensuing silence they seemed to follow her and repeat them-
selves, charged with the portentous significance of all over-
heard fragments of speech; so that she felt herself guiltily
possessed of the secrets of their hearts.

DUSTY ANSWER

J6

The moon shone full on the garden bank when she lifted
herself out, exhausted, and lay down on the grass.

Around her the shadows stood still. Her body in the
moonlight was transfigured into lines of such mysterious
purity that it seemed composed less of flesh than of light.
She thought: “ Even if they had seen me they wouldn’t have
thought me real.” . . . Martin would have been astonished
if not shocked; he would have turned politely away, but
Julian would have appraised her curves, critically and with
interest. And Roddy, — Roddy was so long ago he was in-
calculable. But if that someone dark and curious, with
Roddy’s face, cherished for years in the part of you which
perceived without eyes and knew without reason, — if he
had seen, he would have watched closely, and then with-
drawn himself from the seduction, from the inconvenience
of his own pang; and watched from afar, in silence.

“Oh, Roddy, when will you come and reveal yourself? ”

The swim home had warmed her, but now, in spite of
excited pulses, she felt the cold beginning to strike deeply.
She got up and stood still a moment: soon she must hide her
silver-white body in the cloak, and then it would cease to be
a miracle.

As she stooped for the garment, she heard the long soft
ripple and plash of a paddle; a canoe stole into view, float-
ing down full in the middle of the stream. She gathered
her dark cape round her and stepped back into the shadows;
and as she watched the solitary figure in the stern she for-
got to breathe.

4 Oh, turn! Oh, turn! 5 she sent after him silently.

But if he did she would dissolve, be swallowed up. . . .

He did not turn his head; and she watched him go on,
past the next-door garden and still onward; — going on all
night perhaps. . . .

If only he had seen her he would have beckoned to hen

4 Judith, come with me.’

4 1 will.*

And all night they would have floated on together.

DUSTY ANSWER

57

Some day it would happen: it must. She had always
known that the play of Roddy must be wr tten and that she
must act in it to the end — the happy end.

‘ Oh, Roddy, I am going to love you/

The diminishing, unresponsive blot wh ch was he passed
out of sight.

Half way back to the house she stopped suddenly, over-
come with bewilderment; for that had been Roddy’s self, not
his shadow made by the imagination. The solitudes of the
darkness now held their very forms, Were mysterious with
their voices where for so long only imagined shapes had
hovered in the emptiness. . . . They had slipped back in
that lucid, credulous life between waking and sleep out of
which you start to ponder whether the dream was after
all reality — or whether reality be nothing but a dream.

2

Next day, with unreal ease, she met Mariella in the vil-
lage. She came out of the chemist’s shop, and they were
face to face. There she was, tall and erect, with her dazed
green-blue crystal eyes looking without shadow or stain up-
upon the world from between dark lashes; her eyes, that
knew neither good nor evil, — the icy eyes of an angel or a
devil. Under her black hat her short hair curled outwards,
her pale smooth face preserved its childish oval, her lips just
closed in their soft faint-coloured bow. The mask was still
there, more exquisite than of old; yet when she smiled in
greeting, something strange looked out for a moment, as if
her face in one of its rare breakings-up had been a little
wounded, and still retained the slightest, disturbed expression.

She seemed pleased.

4 Judith! . . . isn’t it? ’

4 Mariella! ’

1 Then you are still here. We wondered.’

c Yes. Still here.’

58

DUSTY ANSWER

She seemed at a loss for what to say, and looked away,
shy and ill at ease, her eyes glancing about, trying to hide.

‘ We — we were wondering about you and we thought
you must be away. We remembered you were brainy and
Julian said you told him you were going to college or some-
where, so we thought p’raps that’s where you were. We
thought you must be dreadfully frightening and learned by
now. Aren’t you? ’

‘ Oh no! ’

What reply was possible to such silliness?

‘[You were always doing lessons,’ she said in a puzzled
voice* Then with a smile: ‘ Do you remember Miss Pirn? ’

‘ Yes. Her false teeth.’

‘ Her smell 9 She wrinkled hbr small nose. c I used to
sit and get whiffs of her, and think of tortures for her. No
wonder I was backward.’ She gave her little giggle and
added nervously again: ‘ Look here, when will you come
and see us? We’d like it. This afternoon? ’

‘ Oh, Mariella, I’d love to.’

‘They’re all there. D’you remember everyone? Julian
was demobilized a little while ago. He’s going back to
Oxford in the autumn.’

‘ And Martin and Roddy? ’

‘ Yes, they’re both there. Roddy’s just back from Paris.
He’s supposed to be studying drawing there. Martin ought
to be at Cambridge, but he’s had appendicitis rather badly
so he’s missing the term.’

‘Are you glad to be back here? ’

‘ Oh yes, we all like it awfully. And it seems to suit
the infant.’

‘ That’s good.’

There was a pause. She had thrown off her last remark
with careless haste, defying you not to know about the
infant; and her eyes had escaped again, as if in dread. In
the pause the gulf of things never to be said yawned for a
moment beneath their feet; and it was clear that Mariella
at least would never breathe her husband’s name.

DUSTY ANSWER

59

‘I — I was just buying some things f<»r him,* she said.
c Some things Nanny wanted. But you can’t get much
here.’ . . . Her voice trailed off nerv< ;isly. Then:

* This afternoon/ she said. ‘ Good-byi till then. Don’t
come too early because the boys are alwa\$ dreadfully lazy
after lunch.’

She smiled and went on.

3

At five o’clock Judith surprised the parlourmaid by tak-
ing off her hat in the hall, wiped her perspiring hands and
announced herself.

At the threshold of the sitting room she paused and
gasped. The room, magnified by fear, seemed full of
giants in grey flannels. Mariella detached herself from a
vast crowd and floated towards her.

c Hullo! ’ she said. c Do you want tea? I forgot about
it. We never have tea. I needn’t introduce, need I? You
know every one.’ She put a light hand for a moment on
Judith’s arm, and the room began to sink and settle; but the
faces of the boys-next-door were nothing but a blur before
her eyes as she shook hands.

< D’you remember which is which? ’ said Mariella.

Now she would have to look up and answer, control this
trembling, arrest this devouring blush.

* Of course I do/

She lifted her eyes, and saw them standing before her,
smiling a trifle self-consciously. That gave her courage to
smile back.

c You’re Martin — you’re Roddy — you’re ’ she hesi-

tated. Julian stood aloof, looking unyouthful and haughty.
She finished lamely — c Mr. F-Fyfe.’

There was a roar of laughter, a chorus of teasing voices
to which, plunged once more in a welter of blushes and
confusion, she could pay no heed.

( I thought you mightn’t like — might think me — I

60 DUSTY ANSWER

didn’t know if — you looked as if you ’ she stammered.

‘ I’m sorry, I’m sure, that you should feel the need of
any such formality,’ said Julian stiffly. He too was blushing.

‘ It was only his shyness,’ mocked a voice.

Judith thought: c After all, he was always the friendly
one.’ That he too should be shy restored her self-confi-
dence, and she said looking full at him and smiling:

‘ I’m sorry. Julian then.’

1 That’s better,’ he said, still stiffly; but he smiled.

Their faces had become clear to her now; but there was
still a point of trouble and strangeness in the room, — the
queer-Jooking sallow young man Roddy. Her eyes flut-
tered over him and went on to Martin. He smiled at her,
and she took a step nearer to hiin f

‘ Are you at Cambridge? ’ she said.

< I am.’

* That’s where I’m going.’

c Are you really? ’

‘For what purpose? ’ said Roddy softly.

c Oh, to learn. I want to learn everything about liter-
ature — English literature anyway, from the. very begin-
ning,’ she said earnestly.

‘ That’s precisely what Martin’s aiming at. Isn’t it,
Martin, you bookworm? ’

‘ I don’t get on much,’ said Martin with a swift confid-
ing smile. ‘ I’m such an idle devil. And so slow.’

She pondered.

‘ I don’t think I’m particularly clever,’ she said. 4 Do
you suppose most girls who go to College are ? ’

c Martin and I think they must be,’ said Roddy, twin-
kling. c They look it, I will say.’

* I saw some when I went for my examination. They
were very plain.’ There was laughter; and she added in
strict fairness: ‘There were two pretty ones, — two or
three.’

‘ Then you intend to become a young woman with really
intellectual interests? ’ said Roddy.

DUSTY ANSWER

61

c Oh yes. I think so.’

* That’s rather serious.’

She became suddenly aware that they were all laughing
at her and stopped, overcome with sham* and dismay.

c Never mind.’ Roddy was twinkling a T her with irresis-
tible gaiety, and his voice was full of car ssing inflections.
c Martin will be delighted to see you. But don’t go to
Newnham or Girton. Awful places — Martin is terrified of
them. Go to Trinity. He’ll chaperone you.’

c Oh, give over, Roddy,’ said Martin indulgently smiling.
‘ You’re too funny.’

C I hope your appendicitis is better?’ asked Judith
politely.

c Much better, thank you.’ He made a little bow.

Nobody had anything more to say. They were not very
good hosts. They stood around, making no effort, idly
fingering and dropping the tags of conversation she offered
them, as if she were the hostess and they most difficult
guests. As in the old days, they formed their oppressive
self-sufficient circle of blood-intimacy with its core of in-
difference if not hostility to the stranger. Charlie was dead,
but now when they were all gathered together she felt him
weighing, drawing them further aloof; and she wished
miserably that she had not come.

They were all casually engaged by themselves. Roddy
was cleaning his pipe, Martin and Mariella playing with a
spaniel puppy. It floundered on to Martin’s lap, and a
moment after:

c Oh, again! ’ came Mariella’s clear little pipe. c What
an uncontrolled chap he is! I’m sorry, Martin.’

c It’ll dry,’ said Martin equably surveying his trousers.
4 It’s nothing.’

Julian had sat down at the piano and was strumming
‘pianissimo . Roddy took up the tune and whistled it.

c What shall we do ? ’ said Mariella. She went on rolling
the puppy.

Julian turned round in his playing and looked at Judith.

62

DUSTY ANSWER

Gratefully she went over and stood beside him. By the
piano, watching Julian’s hands, she was isolated with him
and need not be afraid.

* Go on playing. Something of your own.’

He shook his head and said:

c Oh, that’s all gone.’

What lines, what harshness the war had given his al-
ways furrowed face!

i But it’ll come back.’

* No. It was a feeble spark; and the God of battles has
seen fit to snuff it. The war made some chaps poets — of
sorts; but I never heard of it making anyone a musician.’

‘ Well, you can still play.’

1 Oh, I strum. I strum.’ He sounded weary and dis-
gusted. Was he saying to himself: c Christ! You bloody
bore? ’

c I’d always feel — ’ she struggled. c — compensated if I
could strum as you do. Ever since I was little I’ve envied
you to distraction.’

He cheered up a little and smiled, looking interested in
the old way.

I Play what you were playing last night.’

c How do you know what I was playing last night? ’

I I was on the river and I heard you.’

* Did you? ’ He was flattered. It touched his imagina-
tion to think of himself playing out into the night to in-
visible listeners.

c All alone, were you? ’ He looked her over with alert
interest.

* Oh yes. I said to myself : that must be Mr. Fyfe
playing.’

He laughed.

‘ You know, you were monstrous.’

€ Not at all. It was you. You defied me to pretend I’d
ever known you.’

c Nonsense. I was looking forward to you. Last time
was — When? Centuries ago.’

DUSTY ANSWER

63

c Yes. That skating time/

‘ Lord, yes. Another world/

Abruptly he stopped his soft playing; md Charlie came
pressing upon them, making himself rem- mbered above all
else on that day.

c Why stuff indoors? ’ said Mariel. t. c Come out,
Judith/

She followed Mariella almost light-heartedly. After
all, she was the sort of girl who could talk to people,
even amuse them. She had proved it with Julian; and
success with the others might reasonably be expected to
follow.

A child was playing on a rug under the cedar tree, and
his nurse sat sewing beside him. Judith recognized her as
a figure out of the old days, a dragon called Pinkie,
Mariella’s nurse who had become her maid. Wrinkled,
stern, with the fresh cheeks and clear innocent expression
of an old nurse, she sat guarding Mariella’s son.

c May I please take him, Pinkie? ’ said Mariella. ‘ Pinkie
won’t let me touch him as a rule/

c You’re so careless,’ she said severely; then recognised
Judith and beamed.

Mariella lifted the child easily and carried him under one
arm to where the group of young men had formed by the
river’s edge.

Judith watched him with a painful interest and wonder.
Here in front of her was Charlie’s child: she must believe it.

He was a tall child of slight build and oddly mature looks
for his two years. He had frail looking temples and a neck
far too slender, it seemed, to support the large head covered
with a shock of fine straight brown hair. He had Mariella’s
dark lashes framing brilliant deep-set eyes, and nothing else
of his parents save his pallor and a certain fine-boned dis-
tinction which no Fyfe could lack.

The circle was a barren thing; it could not stretch to
enclose new life. Mariella’s child was outside and irrele-

DUSTY ANSWER

64

vant. Sometimes a cousin put out a large hand to steady
him, or whistled to him or made a grimace, squeaked his
teddy-bear or shouted at him encouragingly when he fell
down. They looked at him with tolerant amused faces like
big dogs, mildly gratified when he paused, steadying him-
self for a moment with a hand on their knees; but they soon
forgot about him. Julian alone appeared to have an interest
in him: he watched him; and Mariella herself now and
then for a moment watched Julian watching him.

It was absurd, incongruous, incredible that this should
belong to Mariella, should have been begotten by Charlie,
carried in her body for nine months, as any woman carries
her child, born of her in the ordinary way with agony and
joy, growing up to love and be ltfved by her, and to call her
mother.

But anybody could have a child; even mysterious childish
widows like Mariella, tragic dead young husbands like
Charlie; the simple proof was there before her eyes. Yet
Mariella was such a childless person by nature. It was as
if her body had played a trick on her and conceived; but to
the creature it had brought forth her unmaternal spirit
bore no relationship. So it seemed; but you could never
tell with Mariella.

4 Come here/ said Judith, and held out her hand.

He stared, then edged away nervously.

4 Do you like children? * asked Mariella politely.

4 1 love them/ said Judith, and then blushed, detect-
ing a fatuous fervour in her voice. But, thank heaven,
Roddy had strolled away with Martin and was out of
hearing.

4 Do you? * Mariella glanced at her and seemed to find
nothing more to say. She pulled the puppy to her.

4 Gobd chap, go and play with Peter. Go on/

4 Then Peter is his name/

4 Michael Peter/ emphasized Julian mockingly. 4 Mari-
ella had the highest motives; but I fear she has done for
him. Michael alone or Peter alone he might have stood up

DUSTY ANSWER

65

against — but the combination! I tremble for his adoles-
cence. However he ought to have a spuri »us charm, at any
rate until he leaves the university. The only hope is that
he himself may find the double burden excessive, and can-
cel himself out to a healthy James or Hen-y. We could do
with a Henry or so in our family. Perhaps after all we
should commend your far-sightedness, Mariella? ’

c I don’t know what you’re talking a: out,’ she said in
her little cheerful voice. 6 1 think Michael Peter is a very
nice name. And he’s quite a nice boy, isn’t he? ’

He was running up and down the lawn with the puppy
in pursuit, pawing at him, nipping his calves, tripping him
up. At first he bore it equably, but after a while stopped
in distress, pushing at the dog with impotent delicate hands,
nervously exclaiming and as if expostulating with him in a
language of hns own, but not once looking towards any of
them for assistance. The puppy crouched before him, and
all at once let out a sharp yelp of excitement. He put his
hands up to his ears. His lip shook.

( Damn that puppy! ’ said Julian furiously. He strode
over to his nephew and lifted him in his arms.

6 The boy’s tired, Mariella, and you know it, and there
you sit, calmly, calmly y — and let that damn fool noisy puppy
bully him and pester him and smash his nerves . . .’

He was white. He stared with naked antagonism at
Mariella, and the air seemed to quiver and grow taut be-
tween them. She got up swiftly to catch the puppy and
touched her son’s head in passing.

* Poor Peter-boy,’ she said quietly. * Silly boy! It’s all
right.’

‘ I must go,’ murmured Judith.

It was unbearable. She must slip away and hide from the
shame and shock of her own perception of the suppressed
hysteria.

i Must you go? ’ Mariella smiled at her with a sort of
sweet blankness. i Well — you must come again soon.
Come often.’

66

DUSTY ANSWER

c I’ll see you to the door/ said Julian. ‘ I’m taking the
boy in.’

Without another word or look Mariella went away; and
he marched off into the house, carrying the child; and
Judith followed him, sick at heart.

Everything had gone wrong. Martin and Roddy had not
returned and she dared not seek them to say good-night.
Alas, they would not care whether she did so or not since
they had not been sufficiently interested in her to stay beside
her. Even Martin did not want her, preferred Roddy.
She had hoped to gain assurance enough to look at Roddy,
once, calmly, and see him as he was; but in the few glances
they had exchanged she had seen nothing but an unreality
so poignant, so burning that it bjurred her whole mind and
forced her eyes to escape, helpless. To-night when she was
in bed they would all come before her, haunting and tor-
menting, trebly indifferent and unpossessed now that this
longed-for meeting was accomplished, a bitter and fruitless
fact. Imagination at least had been fecund, it had fed it-
self : — but the reality was as sterile as stone. What might
she have done, she wondered, that she had not done, how
should she have looked in order to please them? Was it her
clothes or her looks or her idiotic seriousness about college
that had condemned her to them? Bleakly pondering, she
followed Julian into the sitting room.

He sat down at the piano with the boy on his knee, and
began softly playing. Judith stood beside him.

After a little the child flung his head back against Julian’s
shoulder, raptly listening. When he did this Julian’s face
smoothed itself out and all but smiled. He continued to
play, then stopped and said:

1 Sit down. You needn’t go yet,’ — and continued his
quiet njusic.

To free his arms she gently took the child from him and
set him on her own lap, where he sat motionless and as if
unconscious of the change.

Gradually as she watched the crooked fingers sliding along

DUSTY ANSWER

67

the keys from chord to chord, and saw around her the famil-
iar room, the past stole over her. He was the boy Julian and
she the half-dreaming privileged listener; and as if there had
been no gap in their knowledge of each ot er they sat side by
side in unself conscious intimacy. What iad there been to
fear? She saw now that she would always he able to pick him
up just where she had left him, and find him unchanged to
her; she could say anything to him without danger of mock-
ery or rebuff. But he had always been the easiest: the sense
of blood-relationship was tempered in him by his critical
intelligence; and he was always prepared at least to sharpen
his wits against the stranger, if not to befriend him.

He paused and she said:

‘ Nothing has changed here. I remember every single
thing in the room and it’s all the same, — even to the ink-
stains on those boards. It’s like a dream to be back here
talking to you — one of those dreams of remembered places
where everything is so familiar it seems ominous. I’ve
often had a dream like this ’

She stopped, wishing her last words unsaid; but he took
her remark to be general and nodded, and leaned forward
to look at Peter, lying wan and sleepy in her lap. He was
very tired; but not fretful: only silent and languid. Julian
touched his cheek.

‘ And is Peter part of the dream too? , he asked softly.

‘Yes. Isn’t he? ’

He was the passive, waiting core of the ominousness, the
unexpected thing you shrank from yet knew you had to
come back to find. In the dream, it was quite natural to sit
there with Julian, holding Charlie’s child.

‘ Isn’t it strange,’ he said musingly, * that this is the
only proof — the only proof that Charlie ever lived? A
child! Not another whisper from him. • . . I haven’t
even a letter. I suppose she has.’ An utter misery showed
for a moment in his face, and he paused before adding:
‘ And no portrait. Do you remember him? ’

68

DUSTY ANSWER

4 Of course/ Her throat ached with tears. 4 He was
the most beautiful person ’

4 Yes he was. A spring of beauty. He didn’t care about
that, you know, in spite of what people said. His physical
brilliance somehow obscured his character, I think, made it
difficult to judge. But he had a very simple heart.’

Was it true? Who had ever known Charlie’s heart?
Was not Julian speaking as it were in epitaphs, as if his
brother had become unreal to him, — a symbol for grief, —
the individual ghost forgotten? Perhaps Mariella alone of
all people had known his h^art — strange thought! — and
still had him quick within her; but she would never tell.

* It’s not often I speak of him to anyone,’ said Julian;
and his usually narrow swift-glancing eyes suddenly opened
wide and held hers as if he had t some unendurable thought. k
They were pits of misery. What was he remembering?

After a long silence he took the boy on his lap again and
said softly:

4 Peter shall play.’

Peter put out both his hands, and carefully, delicately
dropped them on the keys, listening and smiling.

4 Is he musical? ’

Julian nodded.

4 Oh yes. He’s that — more or less. I seem to detect all
the symptoms.’

He looked down at the leaning head on his shoulder with
a sort of harsh tenderness; and after a while he spoke again
as if out of a deep musing.

4 What, one asks oneself, is she going to do about him? ’

4 Mariella? ’

4 Yes.’

4 Well — it’s more or less mechanical, with a boy, isn’t
it? School and university, — and in his case, musical instru-
ments? ’

4 How wretched he’s going to be,’ he said fiercely.

4 Can’t you see? y

4 She wouldn’t let him be wretched/ she said, startled.

DUSTY ANSWER 69

‘She? — she won’t know it! And f she did, she’d be
helpless.’

‘ Well, he’s got you.’

‘ Me! ’ He gave his bark of laught r.

‘ 1 mean — you like him,’ she ventur d timidly.

‘ I can’t stand brats. And they can’- stand me.’

c I’m not talking about brats. I’m talking about Peter.
I thought you liked him.’

He laughed.

‘ You look so shocked. Do you like brats then? ’

4 Yes.’

‘ Hmm — Well, I dare say Mariella says the same. In
fact, I’ve heard her. She’s very correct, poor darling, in all
her little contributions.’ He looked at the clock. ‘ It’s
time I took him up. Wait for me.’

When he came back he laughed again.

‘ You still look shocked. I’m not a nice man, am I? ’

‘ I’m not thinking about you.’

After a pause he said:

‘ It’s all right, Judy. You’re right. I do like him. But
because I’m bound to feel, must I refuse to think? ’

‘ Think what? ’

‘ That he ought never to have been born.’

‘ Oh! ’ she blushed, horrified.

He flung at her:

‘ What do you wish for the people you love? Life? ’

‘Of course. Don’t you? ’ She was confused, out of
her depth.

‘ No — God, no! ’

‘ Then what? 9

c Unconsciousness. Heavenly, heavenly annihilation.’

‘Then why don’t you kill him? ’ She was shocked at
the sound of her own words.

‘ Because I don’t love him enough.’ He laughed.
‘ Luckily I don’t love anyone enough — never shall. Not
even myself.’ He turned to the window and said, speaking
low, with strained composure: ‘Sometimes — in moments

70

DUSTY ANSWER

of clear vision — I see it all, the whole futile sickening farce.
But it gets obscured. So my friends are safe. Besides, I’m
so damned emotional: if they implored me to save them I
shouldn’t have the heart to argue how much wiser they’d be
to die/

She wondered with alarm if he were mad and sat silent,
waiting in vain for an intelligent counter-argument to
present itself. Finally she stammered:

c But it’s not a futile sickening farce to normal people/
c Oh, normal people! they’re the whole trouble. They
don’t think . They don’t see that you can’t miss anything of
which you’ve never been conscious. All the things for
which they value life — their food, their loves and lusts and
little schemes and athletic exercises, all the little excitements
— what are they but a desperate questioning: c What shall I
do to be happy, to fill up the emptiness, leaven the dreari-
ness? How can I best cheat myself and God? ’ And,
strange to say, they don’t think what a lot of trouble would
have been saved if they’d never been — never had to go
hunting for their pleasures or flying from their pains. A
trivial agitation that should never have begun; and back
into nothing again. How silly! ... As you may have
guessed, I am not altogether convinced of the One Increas-
ing Purpose. I have the misfortune to be doubtful of the
objective value of life, and especially of its pains. Neither
do my own griefs either interest or purify me. So you
see ’

He turned from the window and smiled at her.

6 Yet even I have my compensations: music, food, beauti-
ful people, conversation — or should I say monologue? —
especially this sort of bogus philosophy to which you have
been so patiently listening. Do you agree with me, by
the way? ’

€ No. Do you? *

He laughed and shrugged.

* Still/ she added, i it’s a point of view. I’ll think about
it. I can’t think quickly. But oh! ’ She stopped.

DUSTY ANSWER

71

‘What? ’

‘ I’m so thankful I’ve been born.* She blushed, 4 Even
if I knew you were right I wouldn’t feel it.’

‘ Ah, you’ve never bored yourself. Perhaps you never
will. I hope and believe it’s unlikely.’

She looked at him with distress. Poor Julian! He had
to be theatrical, but his unhappiness wax sincere enough.
His jesting was so humourless, so affected that it crushed the
spirit; and all his talking seemed less a normal exercise than
a forced hysterical activity assumed to east* sharp wretched-
ness. It was not fair to judge and dislike him: he was a sick
man.

He sat down again at the piano, and she rose on an im-
pulse and went and stood beside him,

‘ Some chaps dance,’ he said. ‘ They haven’t stopped

dancing since they’ve been back. I play ’ He plunged

into a medley of ragtime — ‘ and play — and play — and play.
Syncopation — gets you — right on the nerves — like cocaine
— No wonder it’s popular.’

‘ Do you like it? ’

‘ Intellectually,’ he said, ‘ I adore it. It’s so clever.’

He played on loudly, rapidly, with pyrotechnical bril-
liance, then stopped. ‘ My passions, however, are too
debile to be stirred.’

He flung round on the piano stool and dropped his face
into his hands, rubbing his eyes wearily.

‘ Julian — I wish you weren’t — I wish you could ’

He looked up, startled, saw her expression, looked quickly
away again and gave an embarrassed laugh like a boy.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You needn’t take any notice
of me. I’m being a bore. I’m sorry.’ The last words
were faintly husky.

‘ Oh, you’re not a bore, you’re not! Only — don } t be so
miserable.’

In the awkward silence that followed she said:

4 1 must go.’

4 No, you’re not to go,’ he said gently. 4 Stay and talk to

DUSTY ANSWER

72

me/ He paused. ‘ The trouble is, I can’t sleep, you know,
and it makes me a bit jumpy. I don’t like my thoughts, and
they willy they will be thought about. But I shall get better
in time/

‘ Poor Julian! ’

He allowed his face to relax, and his manner was sud-
denly quiet and simple, almost happy: the unexpected sym-
pathy had made him cheerful.

‘ You mustn’t go, Judith, you must stay to supper/

‘ I can’t. What will Mariella say? ’

‘ Mariella doesn’t say. Whether she thinks is the prob-
lem, — or even feels . Is she a very remarkable person? Or
is it sitnfly arrested development? ’

‘ No. I don’t think so/
c Not? ’

She smiled to herself, struck with a fancy.

* Perhaps she’s a fairy, Julian/

As she said it she grew suddenly thoughtful; for it had
flashed upon her that perhaps that was the explanation of
Roddy; perhaps he was a fairy, and in that case it was no
use — he would never . . .

‘ A fairy. I never thought of that/ He mused, pleased
with the idea. ‘You know it must mean something, that
nobody’s ever suggested giving her a 'petit nom } or curtailing
the mouthful; she’s always been Mariella/

He began humming a little tune in his contentment.
Quickly she said:

‘Just to go back to Peter. You don’t mean it, do you?
Why should he be wretched? Think of the things you can
teach him. You know you’ll love that/

He looked a trifle dashed; but after a moment his face
cleared again, and his eyes smiled kindly at her.

‘ Don’.t worry. At all events, I’ll see he’s not ill-treated
— except in my own way. That is, if she’ll let me. She
will. She’s very good-tempered, I must say. She’s never
allowed me to quarrel with her. She well might have/

DUSTY ANSWER 73

He looked like brooding again; but seeing her gazing at
him anxiously, added:

‘ It’s odd how natural it seems to be ta king to you alone
like this. You haven’t changed a bit. 1 always remember
you listening so solemnly and staring at me. I’m so glad
I’ve found you again. I could always talk to you.’

‘ At me,’ she corrected.

He made a face at her, but looked cheerful. She had
always known how near the edge to venture without upset-
ting him. He hummed his little tune again, then played it
on the piano.

‘ I think I made that up. . . . It’s rather a nice little
tune. Perhaps I’ll take up my music seriously again.’

* Oh, you must, Julian. It is so well worth it: such a
special talent.’

He looked at her with sudden attention.

‘ How old are you, Judith? ’

‘ Seventeen. Nearly eighteen.’

He studied her.

‘ You must put your hair up.’

‘ Must I?’

‘Yes, because then you’ll be beautiful.’

She was still speechless when Mariella, Martin, two
Great Danes and the puppy came in.

‘Hullo! ’ said Mariella. ‘Still here? ’

‘ I’m afraid so. But I’m just going.’

‘She’s not. She’s staying to supper,’ said Julian.

‘Oh, good,’ said Martin surprisingly; and his shy red
face smiled at her.

‘ Of course you must,’ said Mariella cheerfully. ‘ We’re
just going to eat now. Where’s Roddy? ’

‘ He stayed down at the boathouse. He said he’d come
soon.’

‘ He’d better,’ said Julian, and turning to Judith explained
politely: ‘ What with poor Martin having to build himself
up so, experience has proved it’s wiser to be punctual.’

DUSTY ANSWER

74

c I’ll go and fetch him/ said Judith, to her own surprise.
She left them amicably wrestling, and escaped light-
heartedly into the garden. The cool air refreshed her brain,
shaken and excited from its contact with Julian; and she
walked slowly to the boathouse by the shrubbery path,
sniffing as she went at wild cherry, japonica, almond and
plum. It was joy to look for and recognize afresh the
beauties of the garden; its unforgottcn corners, — places of
childish enchantment. Somewhere near, under the laurel,
was the rabbit’s grave. She remembered that evening, how
she had been shaken with revelation. This was just such
another mysterious and poignant fall of the light: anything
might happen. Her senses were so overstrung that the
slightest physical impression hit h?r sharply, with a shock.

There on the raft was the curious young man Roddy.
He raised his head from the examination of an old red-
painted canoe, and smiled when he saw her.
c I’m sent to say supper’s ready/
c Thank you very much. I’ll come/

4 I’m staying to supper/ She smiled radiantly at him,
sure of herself and full of an immense amusement.

‘ I’m delighted/

His golden-brown eyes sent her their clear and shallow
light.

4 What are you doing ? 9

4 Seeing if this old canoe is sea-worthy. You see, there’s
a leak, but I don’t think it’s anything much. I’ll leave her
in the water over-night. I want to rig her up with a sail/
He stroked the canoe lovingly.

4 You like going in boats, don’t you? *

4 1 suppose I do rather/

4 1 like it too. Especially at night/

But he would not give himself away. She saw him
slipping down the stream, alone in his canoe, the night
before, but she was not to know it, she could not say: 4 1
saw you/

He bent over his canoe, fingering the wood, then straight-

DUSTY ANSWER

75

ened himself and stood looking down the long willow-
bordered stretch of water. The sun had gone out of it and
it was a quiet grey limpid solitude. A w i*te owl flew over,
swooping suddenly low.

* There he goes/ said Roddy softly. * He goes every
evening/

c Yes, I know/

She smiled still in her immense mysterious amusement.
She saw him look up at the poplar from w hence the owl had
come, and as he did so his whole image w as flung imperish-
ably on her mind. She saw the portrait of a young man,
with features a trifle blurred and indeterminate, as if he had
just waked up; the dark hair faintly ruffled and shining, the
expression secret-looking, with something proud and sensual
and cynical, far older than his years, in the short full curve
of his lips and the heaviness of his under-lids. She saw all
the strange blend of likeness and unlikeness to the boy
Roddy which he presented without a clue.

He caught her smile and smiled back, all his queer face
breaking up in intimate twinklings, and the mouth parting
and going downward in its bitter-sweet way. They smiled
into each other’s eyes; and all at once the light in his
seemed to gather to a point and become fixed, dwelling on
her for a moment.

1 Well? 9 he said at last; for they still lingered uncer-
tainly, as if aware of something between them that kept
them hesitating, watching, listening subconsciously, each
waiting on the other for a decisive action.

He spread out his hands and looked down at them; a nerv-
ous gesture and look she remembered with a pang.

‘ Yes, we must go/ she said softly.

At supper he sat opposite to her, and twinkled at her
incessantly, as if encouraging her to continue to share with
him a secret joke. But, confused amongst them all, she had
lost her sense of vast amusement and assurance; she was
unhappy because he was a stranger laughing at her and she
could not laugh back.

DUSTY ANSWER

76

Beside him was the face of Martin, staring solemnly,
with absorption, watching her mouth when she spoke, her
eyes when she glanced at him.

Thank God the meal was soon over.

A gay clipped exhilarating dance tune sounded from the
drawing-room. Roddy had turned on the gramophone. He
came and took Mariella without a word and they glided off
together. Judith stayed with Julian and Martin in the
verandah, looking in at them. She was frightened; she
could not dance, so she would be no use to Roddy.

1 Do you dance, Julian? ’
c No. At least only with two people/

Alas, — wounding reminder of his elegant unknown world
where she had no place! . . , She blushed in the dusk.

c Julian’s very lordly about his dancing; ’ said Martin.
c I expect he’s rotten really.’

c It may be,’ said Julian, stung and irritable. ‘ It may be
that I therefore bestow the burden of my gyrations on the
only two creatures of my acquaintance whose rottenness
equals mine. It may be that I derive more satisfaction from
the idea of this artistic whole of rottenness than from the
physical delights of promiscuous contact.’

‘ It may be,’ said Martin pleasantly, unperturbed.

^ Julian hunched his shoulders and went away, clouded by
a dreadful mood.

* Poor old Ju,’ said Martin softly.
c Yes, poor thing.’ Her voice implied how well she un-
derstood, and he looked grateful.

In the drawing-room, Roddy and Mariella moved like
a dream, smoothly turning, pausing and swaying, quite
silent.

‘ Well,* shall we? ’ Martin smiled down at her.

Now she must confess.

‘ I can’t, Martin, I don’t know how. I’ve never learnt.
I haven’t ever — - — ’ Shame and despair flooded her.

DUSTY ANSWER 77

* Oh, you’ll soon learn/ he said cheeri ally. ‘ Come and
try/

‘ Oh, I couldn’t/

She glanced at the competent interweaving feet of Mari-
ella and Roddy, at Mariella’s slender b;. :k pivoting grace-
fully from the hips, at Roddy’s composes dancing-face and
shoulders. She could not let them see ier stumbling and
struggling.

i Well, come and practise in the hall. Here now. Can
you hear the music? Follow me. This is a fox-trot. Look,
your feet between my feet. Now just go backwards, fol-
lowing my movements. Don’t think about it. If you step
on my feet it’s my fault and vice versa . Now — short, long ,
short, two short. Don’t keep your back so stiff, — quite free
and supple but quite upright.’

c Do it by yourself,’ said Judith perspiring with anxiety.
‘ Then I can see/

He chassed solemnly round the hall, pausing now and then
to show her how he brought his feet together; then, with a
firm hand on her shoulder-blades he made her follow him.

* That’s good. It’s coming. Oh, good! Sorry, that
was my fault. You’ve got the trick now/

All at once the music had got into her limbs; it seemed
impossible not to move to it.

c But you can! ’ said Martin, letting her go and beaming
at her in joyful surprise.

c Come back into the drawing-room/ said Judith, exalted.

They went.

c Now/ she said trembling.

Martin put his arm round her and they glided off. It was
easier than walking, it was more delicious than swimming or
climbing; her body had always known how it was done.
Martin looked down at her with eloquent eyes and said:

* You know, you’re marvellous. I didn’t know anyone
could learn so quickly/

c It’s because I’ve had such a good teacher/ she said
sweetly.

DUSTY ANSWER

78

They went on dancing, and every now and then she looked
up and smiled at him and his eyes shone and smiled in answer,
happy because of her pleasure. He really was a dear. In his
looks he had improved beyond expectation. He was still a
little red, a little coltish and untidy, but his figure was im-
pressive, with powerful heavy shoulders and narrow hips;
and the muscles of his thigh and calf bulged beneath his
trousers. His head with the brown wings of hair brushed
flat and straight on it, was finely set, his eyes were dark and
warm, kindly rather than intelligent; his nose was biggish
and thick, his mouth long, thin and rather ineffectual, with
a faint twitch at one corner, — the corner that lifted first,
swiftly, when he smiled his frequent shy smile. His teeth
were magnificent; and he smelt a little of Virginian ciga-
rettes.

‘ You must dance with Roddy/ said Martin. c He’s ever
so much better than I am/

Roddy and Mariella w^re dancing in the porch now, not
speaking or looking about them. The record came to an
end, but they went on whirling while Martin sought a new
tune and set it going; then they glided forward again.

Roddy had forgotten her: she was not up to his dancing.

At last Mariella stopped and disengaged herself,

1 1 want to dance with Martin now/ she said. .

Roddy left her and strolled over to Judith.

i Been giving Martin a dancing-lesson? 9 he said.

‘ Goodness, no! He’s been teaching me. I didn’t know
how/

( Oh? — How did you get on? ’

( Quite well, thank you. It’s easy. I think I can dance
now/

‘ Good! ’

It was plain he was not interested; or else was incredulous.
He thoiight she was just a stumbling novice; he was not
going to dance with her or even offer to go on teaching her.
Roddy would never have bothered to give her hints or be
patient while she was awkward. He was so good himself

DUSTY ANSWER 79

that he could not condescend to incompetence. But Judith,
still, though more doubtfully, exalted, Mid:

c Shall we dance ? ’

He looked surprised.

c All right. Certainly. Just let m< cool down a bit.’

He was not in any hurry. He sat on table and watched
Mariella’s neatly moving feet.

‘ She’s good at her stuff,’ he said.

* Do you adore dancing? ’

c Well, I don’t know that I adore it. It’s fun once in a
way. 1

‘ It seems funny not to be mad about a thing if you can do
it so beautifully.’

He looked at her with amusement.

She must remember not to ask Roddy if he adored things.
His secret life went on in a place where such states of feel-
ing were unknown.

‘ Shall we? ’ he said at last.

She was not going to be able to do it; the rhythm had
gone out of her limbs. He was going to be too good for
her and she would stumble and he would get disgusted and
not dance with her any more. . . .

After a few moments of anguish, suddenly she could,
after all. Long light movements flowed from her body.

Roddy looked down.

* But you can dance,’ he said.

c I told you I could. You didn’t believe me.’

He laughed.

c You don’t mean to tell me you’ve never danced
before? ’

‘ Never.’

‘ Swear? ’

‘ Cross my heart.’

i But of course,’ said Roddy, c you couldn’t help dancing,
such a beautiful mover as you.’

He had really said that! She lifted her face and glowed
at him: life was too, too rich.

8o

DUSTY ANSWER

The music came to an end. Roddy stood still with his
arm round her waist and called imperiously to Martin for
another tune.

4 Come on/ he said, and tightened his arm round her.
You might almost dare to suppose he was a little, a very lit-
tle exalted too.

4 But you do love it, Roddy ! 5

He looked down at her and smiled.

4 Sometimes. 5

4 Do you now? 5

4 Yes. 5

4 Roddy! 5

She* was silenced by happiness.

They were alone now. Martin and Mariella were on the
verandah, and she heard Mariella say:

4 Darlin 5 Martin, fetch me my coat. 5

4 Mariella’s very fond of Martin, isn’t she? 5

4 I don’t know. I suppose she is. What makes you think
so? 5

* I just heard her call him darling just now. 5

He laughed.

4 Oh yes. She does that now and again. 5

4 She doesn’t call you darling, 5 said Judith twinkling.

4 No. Nobody ever does. 5

4 Not anybody, — ever? 5

4 Not anybody — ever?

4 What a pity! And it is so enjoyable to be called dar-
ling. 5

4 Fve no doubt it is. I tell you I’ve no experience. 5
He peered into her face, and repeated piteously: 4 Nobody
ever does. 5

Judith laughed aloud.

4 1 will, 5 she heard her own voice saying.

4 You really will? 5

She waited.

4 Go on, 5 he urged.

The word would not come.

DUSTY ANSWER

8l

c Go on, go on! 9 he shouted triumph ntly.

4 Oh, be quiet! 9

c Please ! . .

‘No. . .

She hid her face away from him and lushed. Laughing
silently he gathered her up and started whirling, whirling.
A deeper dream started. The room was a blur, flying,
sinking away; only Roddy’s dark red tie and the line of his
cheek and chin above it were real.

She laughed and gasped, clinging to him.

‘ Giddy? 9

‘ Yes. No. I don’t know.’

He stopped and looked at her amusedly.

‘ Oh, I am 9

She threw out an arm blindly and he caught it and sup-
ported her.

‘ Come out on the verandah and get sober,’ he said.

The spring night greeted them with a chill fragrance.
Roddy’s eyes were so bright that she could see them shining,
brimming with amusement in the dim light.

c What are you looking at, Roddy? ’

1 Yon 9

‘ I can see your eyes. Can you see mine? 9

He bent his head over hers.

‘ Yes, of course. They’re like stars. Lovely dark eyes.’

6 Are they? . . . Roddy paying compliments, — how
funny! Roddy, I remember you. Do you remember your-
self when we were children? 9

( Not much. I never remember the past. I suppose I’m
not interested enough — or interesting enough.’

She felt checked, and dared not ask the 4 What do you re-
member about me? ’ which should have opened the warm
little paths of childish reminiscence. Roddy had no desire
to recall the uninteresting figures of himself and the little
girl Judith: that trifling relationship had been brushed away
as soon as it had ceased. She must realize that, for him, no

82

DUSTY ANSWER

long threads came dragging from the web of the past, tan-
gling the present.

She stared into the dark garden, wondering what safe
topic to propose.

4 When do you go back to Paris, Roddy? *

4 Oh, — soon, I suppose/

4 Do you work very hard there? ’

4 Terribly hard/

4 Drawing or painting ? 9
4 Some of both. Nothing of either/

4 I suppose you wouldn’t show me some of your things? 9
4 Couldn’t. I’ve nothing here. I’m having a rest.’ He
twinkled at her.

4 What a pity! I should so have loved . . . Which are
you best at, drawing or painting? ?

4 Oh, I don’t know. Drawing, I think. But I’m not
any good. I just waste time/

4 Why do you ? 9
4 Why indeed? ’

4 How funny! If I could draw I’d draw all day. I’d be
so excited at being able to, I’d go on and on. I’d be so hor-
rid and enthusiastic. I wouldn’t have any sense of hu-
mour about it. You’d think me nauseating , wouldn’t
you? ’

He nodded, smiling.

4 But I’d draw. I’d be the best drawer in the world.
Oh, you are lucky! I do envy people with a specialty, and I
do love them. Isn’t it funny how fingers take naturally to
one form of activity and not to another? Mine — mine — ’
she spread them out and looked at them — 4 mine wouldn’t
draw if I spent all my life trying to make them; but — they
know how to touch a piano — only a little of course; but they
understand that without having it explained. And some
fingers can make lovely things with a needle and thread and
a bit of stuff. There’s another mystery! Then there are
the machine makers, and the ones that can use knives like
artists to take away bits of people or put bits in, — and the

DUSTY ANSWER

83

ones that can remove pain just by touching. . . . Some
people are their hands, aren’t they? Tluiy understand with
them. But most people have idiot hands, — destroyers.
Roddy, why are some of our senses alw lys idiots? All my
senses are semi-imbecile, and I’m bett< r off than lots of
people, I suppose. Seems to me, what they call the norm is
practically idiot, and any departure is j st a little more or

less so. Yet one has this idea of perfection ’

She stopped abruptly. He was not interested, and his face
in the wan light was a blank which might be hiding mockery
or distrust of a girl who affected vaporous philosophizings,
trying, no doubt, to appear clever. She hushed. Such stuff
had been her food for years, chewed over secretly, or con-
fided to the one friend, the Roddy of her imagination; and
here she was in the foolishness of her elation pouring it out
to this unmoved young man who thought — she must re-
member this — that he was meeting her for the first time.
It was plain, it must be plain to him, that she was a person
with no notion of the rules of behaviour.

c Come back and dance,’ suggested Roddy at last.

It was curious how much easier it was to get on with Roddy
if he had an arm round you. His mind, the whole of him,
came freely to meet you then; there was entire happiness,
entire peace and harmony. It was far more difficult to find
him on the plane where only minds, not senses, had contact, —
the plane on which a Julian, one whose physical touch could
never be desirable, was reached without any groping. Roddy
put something in the way. He guarded himself almost as if
he suspected you of trying to catch him out; or of taking an
impertinent interest in him. His mind would be thrilling
if you could dig it out: all hidden and withheld things were.
€ I don’t want ever to stop,’ she said suddenly.

€ We won’t,’ he promised and held her closer, as if he
were as much caught away and dazed as she.

He bent his head and whispered laughingly:

€ Just say it.’

* Say what? *

DUSTY ANSWER

84

‘ That word you like — in your delicious voice — just as a
kindness/

‘ No, I won’t — now/

‘ When will you? ’

‘You are naughty, Roddy. . . . Perhaps when I know
you better/

‘ You’ll never know me better than you do now/

‘ Don’t say that. Why do you? ’

‘ There’s nothing more to know.’

‘ Oh, if there’s nothing more to know, then you ave 9

‘What?’

‘ More or less — as far as I can tell ’

‘What? ’

She whispered.

‘ A darling.’

‘Ah, thank you/ He added rapidly, in the full soft
voice of laughter: ‘ Thank you, darling/

‘ Now we’ve both said it. Roddy, aren’t we absurd? ’

‘ No, very sensible/

‘ Did you like it? 9
‘ I adored it.’

‘ Roddy, are we flirting? *

‘ Are we ? ’

‘ If we are, it’s your fault. You make me feel sort of
stimulated. I didn’t flirt with Martin.’

‘ I’m very glad to hear it. Martin wouldn’t have liked it
at all/

They laughed and danced on. He held her very close, the
cold rim of his ear touching her forehead.

‘ To think I’ve never danced before! ’

‘ Why haven’t you? ’

‘ Nobody to dance with/

‘ Nobody? ’

‘ Nobody at all/

‘ Have you been living on your little lone since I went
away? 9

‘ Ever since then/

DUSTY ANSWER 85

‘ Well, now I’ve come back we’ll dance a lot, won’t
we? ’

‘ Oh yes. But you’ll disappear again, I ^noW you will.’

‘ Not yet. And not for long.’

She could have cried, he was so comfort :ig.

He spun, holding her tightly, stopped, ht id her a moment
more, and let her go as the record came to an end. She
watched him as he went, with that secret of idle grace in
his movements, to switch off the gramophone. He looked
pale and composed as ever, while she was flushed, throbbing
and exhausted with excitement. She stood at the open French
windows and leaned towards the cool night air; and he
found her silent when he came back.

6 A penny for them, Judith.’

‘ I was thinking — what extraordinary things one says.
I suppose it’s the dancing. It seems so incredibly easy to
behave as one naturally wouldn’t ’

‘ 1 find that myself,’ he said solemnly.

‘ The — the unsuitable things that generally stay inside
one’s head, — they spring to one’s lips, don’t they? ’

‘ They do.’

‘ Values are quite changed. Don’t you think so? ’

She must make him realize that she was not really a cheap
flirtatious creature: re-establish her dignity in his eyes. She
had behaved so lightly he might be led to think of her and
treat her without respect, and laugh at her behind her back
after she had ceased to divert him. It was very worrying.

‘ Quite, quite changed,’ he said.

‘Isn’t it queer? I suppose — it doesn’t do much harm?
One oughtn’t to think worse of a person for ’

He threw back his head to laugh at his ease, silently, as
always, as if his joke were too deep down and individual
for audible laughter.

‘Are you laughing at me, Roddy? ’

‘ I can’t help it. You’re so terribly funny. You’re the
funniest person I’ve ever met.’

‘Why am I? ’

86

DUSTY ANSWER

€ You’re so incredibly serious.’

‘ I’m not — not always.’

‘ I’m afraid you are. I’m afraid you’re terribly intro-
spective.’

‘ Am I? Is that wrong? Roddy, please don’t laugh at
me. It leaves me out if you laugh bv yourself like that.

I could laugh with you at any thing, if you’d let me ’

she pleaded.

‘ Anything — even yourself? ’

She pondered.

‘ 1 don’t know. Perhaps not. That’s a weakness, isn’t
it?’

‘There you go again! Never mind about your weak-
nesses. I was only teasing you. Let me see you smile.’

To obey him her lips went upwards sorrowfully ; but when
she saw his laughing, coaxing face, her heart had to lift too.

‘ Well you’re very nice anyway,’ he said, ‘ serious or
no. Have you forgiven me? ’

‘ Oh yes. Yes, Roddy.’

As she said it she realised with a passing prophetic sense
of helplessness and joy and fear that whatever he did she
would always inevitably forgive him. But she must not
tell him that, yet.

Martin and Mariella came strolling back from the gar-
den, the spark of their cigarettes going before them. She
heard Mariella’s little laugh bubbling out contentedly, her
childish voice answering his in an easy chatter. Yes, Mari-
ella was happy with Martin. He was polite and kind to her,
and she was equal to him without effort. As she came into
the light Judith was struck afresh by the lack of all em-
phasis, the careful absence of any one memorable feature in
the memorable whole of her beauty. Her lovely athletic
body effaced itself in simple clothes of no particular fashion
or cut; subdued in colour, moderately long, moderately low
in their necks and short in their sleeves, — negative clothes
that nevertheless were distinguished, and said " Mariella ”
and nothing else in the world.

DUSTY ANSWER

87

It was time to go.

* Oh, must you? ’ said Mariella.

Roddy said not a word. He had detached himself as soon
as the others came in, and was idly busy in a corner, tuning
a guitar. Either he had not heard or was not interested. It
seemed impossible that his face had been off its guard a few
minutes ago, warming and lighting in su ft response.

Julian lounged in again silently, a b<>ok in his hand.
He looked tired and fierce, as if daring her to remember his
recent lapse into friendliness. The strange disheartening
people . . .

She stammered: ‘Well, good-night everybody. Thank
you so much/

‘ One of the boys will see you home,’ said Mariella
dubiously.

c Oh no. It isn’t necessary. I’ll just climb over the wall
if the gate’s locked. I shall be quite all right, hon-
estly . .

There was no need to protest. They dismissed the matter
in silence.

‘ Well, come in any time,’ said Mariella.

But any time was no good. She had dreaded just such a
non-committal invitation. Any time probably meant never.
Despondently she looked back to smile her thanks; and as her
eyes took in the group of them standing there looking at her,
she felt suddenly startled.

But they were all alike!

So strange, so diverse in feature and colour, they yet had
grown up with this overpowering likeness; as if one mind
had thought them all out and set upon them, in spite of
variations, the unmistakable stamp of itself. Alone among
all the tali distinguished creatures Roddy made sharp de-
parture, and preserved, though not wholly intact, the pro-
founder individuality of his unimportant features*

88

DUSTY ANSWER

4

It was some weeks later. The day had been long and
fruitless. She had idled through the hours, playing the
piano, reading c Pecheurs cPIslande 5 with voluptuous sorrow,
doing nothing. A letter from her mother in Paris had
arrived in the afternoon. They were not coming home just
yet. Father had caught another of his colds and seemed so
exhausted by it. He was in bed and she was nursing him,
and it had meant cancelling his party, that party. Why
should not Judith come out and join them, now that her
examinations were over? It would amuse her; and Father
wohld be glad to have her. They would expect her in a few
days; she was old enough now to make the journey by herself.

Her heart was heavy. She' could not leave the house,
the spring garden, this delicious solitude, these torturing and
exquisite hopes. How could she drag herself to Paris when
she dared not even venture beyond the garden for fear of
missing them if they came for her? If she went now, the
great opportunity would be gone irrevocably; they would
slip from her again just as life was beginning to tremble on
the verge of revelation. She must devise an excuse; but it
was difficult. She swallowed a few mouthfuls of supper
and wandered back into the library.

The last of the sun lay in the great room like blond water,
lightly clouded, still, mysterious. The brown and gold and
red ranks of the dear books shone mellow through it, all
round the room from the floor three quarters way to the ceil-
ing; the Persian rugs, the Greek bronzes on the mantlepiece,
the bronze lamps with their red shades, the tapestry curtains,
the heavy oak chairs and tables, all the dim richnesses, were
lit and caressed by it into a single harmony. The portrait of
her father as a dark-eyed, dark-browed young man of ro-
mantic! beauty was above the level of the sun, staring som-
brely down at his possessions. She could sit in this room,
especially now with hair brushed smooth and coiled low across
the nape, defining the lines of head and neck and the clear

DUSTY ANSWER

89

curve of the jaw, — she could sit alone here in her wine-red
frock and feel part of the room in darkness and richness and
simplicity of line; decorating it so naturalh that, if he saw,
his uncommunicating eyes Would surely dv ell and approve.

She and the young man of the portrait recognised each
other as of the same blood, springing with kindred thoughts
and dreams from a common root of beii g, and with the
same physical likeness at the source of their inlikeness which
she had noticed in the cousins next-door. Sfie was knit by a
heart-pulling bond to the portrait; through it, she knew she
loved the elderly man whose silent, occasional presence
embarrassed her.

There was sadness in everything, — in the room, in the
ringing bird-calls from the garden, in the lit, golden lawn
beyond the window, with its single miraculous cherry-tree
breaking in immaculate blossom and tossing long foamy
sprays against the sky. She was sad to the verge of tears, and
yet the sorrow was rich, — a suffocating joy.

The evening held Roddy clasped within its beauty and
mystery: he was identified with its secret.

* Oh, Roddy, I love you! I’ve always loved you.’

Oh, the torment of loving!

But soon the way would open without check and lead to
the happy ending. Surely it had started to open already.

The pictures came before her.

Roddy playing tennis, — playing a characteristic twisty
game that irritated his opponents, and made him laugh to
himself as he ran and leapt. His eyes forgot to guard them-
selves and be secret: they were clear yellow-brown jewels.
She was his partner, and with solemn fervour she had tried
to play as she had never played before, for his sake, to win
his admiration. But he Was not the sort of partner who said:
“Well played!” or “Hard lines.” He watched her
strokes and looked amused, but was silent even when she
earned him victory after victory.

Afterwards she said:

* Oh, Roddy, I love tennis. Don’t you? ’

90

DUSTY ANSWER

He answered indifferently:

* Sometimes, — when they let me do as I like ; when Fm
not expected to play what they call properly. One of my
lady opponents once told me I played a most unsporting
game. “ My intelligence, however corrupt, is worth all
your muscle ” — was what I did not just then think of
saying to her. She was in a temper, that lady/

She smiled at him, thinking how she loved the feel of her
own body moving obediently, the satisfaction of achieving a
perfect stroke, the look of young bodies in play and in re-
pose, — especially his; and she hazarded:

*1 love it just for the movement. I love movement, — the
look of people in motion and the thought and feel of my
own movements. I suppose I am too solemn over it. I want
so much to do it as well as I can. I’m solemn because I’m
excited. I sometimes think I would like above all things to
be the best dancer in the world, — or the best acrobat; or
failing that, to watch dancers and acrobats for ever/

Looking back on their few but significant conversations,
she decided that there was something about him which
invited confidences while seeming to repel them. Though
his response — if it came at all or came save in silent laughter
— was uncoloured by enthusiasm and unsweetened by sym-
pathy, he made her feel that he understood and even pon-
dered in secret over her remarks.

c There are some things I tell you, Roddy, that I tell no
one else. They make themselves be told. Often I haven’t
known they were inside me/ She rehearsed this silently.
One day she would say it aloud to him.

Then she had added:

1 Do you still caricature, Roddy? ’

* Now and then, — when I feel like it/

c It is funny how a caricature impresses a likeness on you
far quicker and more lastingly than a good portrait. Do you
remember you once did one of me when we were little and
I cried? ’

* I’d forgotten that/

DUSTY ANSWER 9 1

* Do you see everybody with their imj perfections exag-
gerated — always? ’

< Only with one eye. That’s my defence. The other has
so frequently to be shut — or wounded. B t there’s a great
deal of aesthetic pleasure to be had from t te contemplation
of monsters.’

* I suppose the temptation is to shut the normal one more
and more until finally it ceases to work; especially if the
other one has a greater facility. And it has, hasn’t it,
Roddy? 9

* Perhaps. You must stay by me and counteract it,’

€ Which is it? ’ she looked at him laughing.

He shut one eye.

c I shut it entirely to look at you,’ he said.

Afterwards when she played again, a single with Martin,
he lay on the bank, indolent after his burst of energy, watch-
ing her long after the others had lost interest and gone
indoors. Passing him once, she had closed one eye and looked
at him inquiringly; and all his face had broken up in warm
delighted twinklings. He did welcome the most trivial
jokes from her; and they were always trivial, and not nearly
frequent enough.

Next time had been the time of Julian’s extremely bad
temper. He had played tennis with malice and vicious cuts
and nasty exclamations of triumph. Over Roddy’s face slid
down the mask of deadly obstinacy which was his anger.

He came from the game and flung himself on the bank
without a word, while Julian remained on the court, peev-
ishly patting balls about.

c He annoys me,’ said Roddy after a bit, watching him
under heavy lids. Presently he took a piece of paper from
his pocket and worked in silence.

i Roddy, may I see it? ’

He made no reply; but after a few more minutes he flung
it over to her.

It was a terrible success (Julian had always been the most
successful subject) ; and it was devilish as well as funny.

DUSTY ANSWER

92

< Oh, Roddy! ’ She began to giggle.

‘Sh! Lookout! He’s coming back.’

He snatched the paper from her and crushed it up.

* Oh, let me keep it.’

* Well, don’t let him see it. He hates it.’

He flung it hurriedly into her lap as Julian came up; and
as she stuffed it into her pocket with studied carelessness, his
lips suddenly relinquished the last of his obstinacy, and he
flashed her a look suffused with laughter and the sense of
shared guilt. Surely he had never looked at anyone before
with such irresistible intimacy and appeal. The less assured
face of the child Roddy peered for a moment in that look;
but the dark and laughing fascination was new and be-
longed to the young man; and she melted inwardly at the
remembrance of it.

Then there had been the time Martin and Roddy had
come to tea — so exciting a little time that she still dwelt on
it with beating heart.

She felt again her delighted astonishment at sight of the
pair of them coming up the garden. She had washed her hair
and was drying it in the sun when they appeared; it was
spread in a mass round her shoulders and down to her waist,
and she was brushing the last of the damp out of it.

i Hullo! ’ said Martin.

4 Hullo!’

They came smiling up to her.

i Are you busy? ’ said Martin.

* No, only washing my hair. Please excuse it.’

c We like it,’ said Roddy. He watched her brushing,
combing it and shaking it back over her shoulders as if
fascinated.

c Are you doing anything this afternoon? ’ said Martin,

4 Oh no! ’ — eagerly.

* ShaH we be in the way? *

* Of course not.’

* Then may we come to tea ?

* Oh! Will you really? ’

9

DUSTY ANSWER 93

‘ Julian has got some tiresome people w t don’t like, so we
escaped, and Roddy suggested coming to find you.’

Roddy raised his eyebrows, smiling faintly.

‘ Well, we both suggested it,’ continued Martin with a
blush. c May we really stay ? ’

Which, oh, which of them had suggested it? . . .

c Will you wait here while I go and pi t my hair right? ’

c It’s not dry yet,’ said Roddy. ‘ Let me brush it at the
back for you.’

She stood still in embarrassed pleasure while he brushed
and combed her hair.

4 You do it beautifully. You don’t pull a bit.’

c I’m a good hairdresser. I brush my mother’s when her
maid’s out.’

c Has she got lovely hair? ’

4 Goodish. Very long. Not such lumps of it as this
though.’ He took up a handful and weighed it. 4 Ex-
traordinary stuff.’

It was the first time that she had ever heard him mention
his mother. Why, Roddy must have a home life, a whole
background of influences and associations of which she knew
nothing. . . . She felt startled and anxious; and the old
ache at being left out, failing to possess, stirred in her.

She saw him brushing his mother’s hair with careful
hands. His mother had long dark hair perfumed deliciously.
She had a pale society face, and she sat before her brilliantly
lit dressing table wearing a rich wrap and pearls, and put
red on her lips, and made Roddy fetch and carry for her
about the bedroom. They talked and laughed together. She
had never heard of Judith,

Judith dismissed the picture.

Roddy went on brushing, while Martin stared and smiled
at her. They made a most intimate-looking little group. She
thought of herself for a moment as their sister. Roddy would
often brush her hair for her if she was his sister, or if . . .

‘ There ! ’ said Roddy. 4 Je vous felicite } Mademoiselle 9

DUSTY ANSWER

94

He adjusted her tortoiseshell slide and bowed to her with the
hairbrush over his heart.

‘ I love your garden,’ said Martin.

She showed them the garden and then the house. They
asked questions and admired the furniture and the rare books
she picked out for them in the library.

‘ When Daddy comes back you must meet him,’ she said.
c He’d love to show you his books.’

She was sure he would like such appreciative young men.

‘ I’d like to meet him awfully,’ said Martin. ‘ I’ve often
heard about him.’

She glowed.

c No wonder you’re a bookworm, Judy,’ said Roddy,
searching the shelves with absorbed eyes. c I’d be myself
if I had this always round me.’

He could hardly tear himself away from browsing and
gazing.

In the hall hung a water-color portrait of Judith at the
age of six.

c Ah ! ’ said Roddy. ‘ I remember you like this.’

He looked from her to the portrait, and then at her again,
as if remembering and comparing, and dwelling on the face
she smilingly lifted to him until she had to drop her eyes.

They had tea in the drawing-room, — exquisite China tea
in the precious Nankin cups which always appeared for
visitors. Everything in the house was precious and exquisite :
she had never realized it before; and she thought:

c Now that they have seen me in my beautiful home,
against my own background, the only daughter of such rich-
ness, they will think more of me.’

It certainly seemed so. Conversation flowed happily about
nothing. She was, for tfie first time, completely at her ease;
and they listened with interest, — even with a sort of defer-
ence, as if they thought her rather a special person.

After tea they went down to the river. The westering
sun spread on the water as far as eye could see in a full
embrace of shining light.

DUSTY ANSWER

95

‘ Let’s bathe,’ said Martin.

They ran next door for their bathing suits while she
undressed in the boathouse. Then the) returned and un-
dressed behind the boathouse; and they a 1 plunged into the
water together.

Judith and Roddy stood on the raft, watching Martin
diving sideways, and backwards and forwards, always per-
fectly, his magnificent muscle swelling md rippling as he
moved. He swam and dived with a faultless ease of tech-
nique, as if he could never tire.

But Roddy would not exert himself. After two swift
arrow-like dives he stood on the raft looking funny and
boyish, with his hair plastered close over his head and his
too-slender body shivering slightly. She noticed how deli-
cately he was made in spite of his height. He had the look
of a cat, graceful, narrow and lazy; and his skin was almost
as smooth as her own.

When she dived he watched her body and all her move-
ments closely; and she wondered whether his artist’s eye
were detecting the faults and virtues of her form and if she
compared at all favorably with his models in Paris.

She swam a little and talked to Martin, and came back
to the raft.

‘ Have you had enough, Roddy? ’

‘Soon.’

‘ Do you prefer watching? ’

‘ I always prefer watching.’

It was true. He would watch with deep concentration
while others moved and took exercise, as if he were drawing
them in his mind or getting them by heart; but his own
impulses towards physical activity were rare and of brief
duration.

*1 like swimming,’ said Judith; careful not to say she
adored it.

‘ You do it very nicely.’

‘ But this is dull compared with swimming at night.’
‘Ah!’

DUSTY ANSWER

96

( Have you ever done that? 9

c No, never/

‘ You don’t need to wear a bathing-suit then. It’s far
more delicious with nothing on. 5

1 1 suppose it is.’

‘ I do it quite often. 5

Now she was going to tell him something she had never
meant to tell him. She could not stop herself. As if he were
expecting it, he turned his face to hers, and waited.

‘ I saw you once when I was bathing. It was before we
met again. You were in a canoe, alone, and I knew it was
you. I watched you go past. 5

* 1 know you did. 5

* You ?’

* I saw you, 5 he said.

She was paralysed; and of the questions which flooded her
mind not one could be spoken.

She lifted her eyes and saw his weighing on her, making
her answer him, with something heavy and Axed, dazed
almost, at the back of their clear shining. She gazed back;
and in a moment was lost, sinking in timeless soundless dark-
ness and clinging to his eyes while she drowned.

It was all over in the duration of two or three heavy
heart beats: and then they were standing together aimlessly,
shivering in wet bathing-suits and Martin came all stream-
ing and fresh from the water and broke in upon them with
cheerful upbraidings.

They parted from her with happy thanks and friendly
looks, and Roddy said that some day he w'ould come and
spend a whole afternoon in the library if he might; and then
instead of the casual: c See you again soon 5 which she
dreaded, they gave her a specific invitation to a picnic in
two days 5 time.

That had been the last time.

It was a day without sun. The muffled light fell all day
across the countryside as if through faintly shining bluish
glass; and beneath it the spring held itself withdrawn and

DUSTY ANSWER

97

still, as unchanging as a picture. Around the gentle green of
the picnic meadow was the wild and ardent green of the
little hedge; and here and there across the hedge, the black-
thorn flung great scatters of frail-spun >aow. Beyond the
meadow the larch copse was lit all over w th plumes of green
fire; and upon its fringes, pure again^ the dim purple-
brown of its tangled trunks, a stripling Tree or so sprinkled
its fresh leaves out upon the darkness like a swarm of green
moths arrested in flight. Everywhere the lavish, pour-
ing green, smouldering and weighed-down with the ache of
life, and quiet, quiet, turned inward upon itself and con-
suming its own heart. Everywhere the white blossom, as it
rose, freed itself lightly from its roots in earth’s pangs of
passion and contemplation, and, floating upon the air, kept
but one secret, which was beauty, paid no heed, gave no
sign.

Roddy lay with his head in the moss, sniffing at primroses,
nibbling grasses, teasing Martin under his breath, watching
them all with half-closed eyes.

Everyone was quiet and happy; all the peevishness was
gone, all the tension smoothed out. The cigarette smoke
curled in patterns into the still air; and now and again the
Spring stirred, shook out a long breath of blossom and leaf
and wet earth; and then was tranced again.

They made a wood fire and watched it sink to crumbling
feathery ash round a glowing core; and they ate oranges and
tomatoes and very young small lettuces stolen from the
garden by Martin who was still, so Roddy said, a tiger for
raw vegetables. But there were no onions: he declared he
had given them up.

Nothing memorable was said or done, yet all seemed
significant, and her happiness grew to such a poignant ecstasy
that her lips trembled. She rolled over and hid her face in
her hands for fear it should betray her by indecent radiance;
but nobody noticed. Their eyes looked calm and dreaming:
even Mariella’s had a less blind stare, a depth of meditation.

If only the moment could stay fixed, if their strange and

DUSTY ANSWER

9 8

thoughtful faces could enclose her safely for ever in their
trance of contentment, if she could be able to want nothing
from them beyond a share of their unimpassioned peace: if
only these things could be, they would be best. For a
moment they seemed possible; for a moment she achieved a
summit and clung briefly to it, tasting the cool taste of no
desire. But it would not do: it was the taste of being old
and past wanting people, — past wanting Roddy who already
tasted so sharply and sweetly that she must have more of him
and more of him; and whose presence in the circle made
collective indifference a pretence too bleak to strive for.

The sun flooded the meadow all at once in a tide of pallid
light; and the earth ceased to struggle and brood in the dark
coil of itself, and spread itself smiling and released. The
spell within the clouded crystal of the afternoon broke; they
stretched and stirred. Judith looked up at the big elm.

* Who can climb this? ’ she said.

1 Up with you/ said Martin.

She climbed as she had not climbed since childhood,
lifting herself lightly, unhesitatingly from branch to branch.
At the top she looked down and saw them all small beneath
her, looking up. Boldly from her eminence she called to the
little creatures to come up; but not one of them would.

She descended again, feeling young and silly in the face
of their lack of physical ambition. But they were all smiling
upwards to receive her. Martin held his hands up to her
and she took them and jumped from the bottom bough.

( You haven’t forgotten your stuff/ he said, and his eyes
dwelt on her with their faithful brown look.

4 I wish I could do that/ said Mariella. c 1 never could/

c And now/ said Julian, i divert us with a hand spring or
so/ — and his harsh face looked half-amused, half-clouded
with an odd look, — almost like jealousy.

He had never been really pleased with the spectacle of
other people’s successes: He found it too bitter not to be
himself the one to excel. But he could not trouble her to-day
or make her doubtful.

DUSTY ANSWER 99

Roddy said nothing, — only looked at her out of glinting,
twinkling eyes.

It was time to go home.

She parted from them gaily, taking her immense happi-
ness with her unbroken, for once stepping clear out of the
day into sleep with it wrapped round he: .

But now, when she looked back for that day, it was a
million miles behind her, floating unsubst mtially like a wisp
of shining mist: and all that returned to her out of it, clear
and whole, were two detached impressions which, at the
time, had barely brushed her consciousness: the look of
young lilac-leaves with the sun on them, glittering above the
garden-gate where she had bidden them good-bye; and the
expression she had surprised on Mariella’s face some time
in that day, — but when, she had forgotten.

Whatever had disturbed Mariella’s face then, it had not
been happiness. The other faces, even Roddy’s, had un-
accountably become blurred in the mist; but Mariella’s came
back again and again, as if to stress the significance of its
momentary defencelessness; as if, could it only be solved,
there, in a flash, would be the whole clue to Mariella.

She got up and studied her hair in the mirror above the
mantelpiece. While she stared there came a tap on the
window behind her. She turned and there was Roddy peer-
ing through the pane and laughing at her. She ran to the
window and opened it.

4 Roddy! ’

It did not seem possible that he should have come when
she wanted him so badly.

€ I’ve knocked twice. You were too busy to hear me.*

€ I’ve put my hair up.*

c It’s ravishing. Will you please come in it to a fireworks
party which Martin is giving in about an hour’s time? 9

c Fireworks! of all heavenly things! Hurrah for Martin ! 9

( He only thought of it this afternoon, and he dashed into
the town and bought up the whole stock. He sent me to

100

DUSTY ANSWER

fetch you. He says he must have you. Julian’s terrified of
the big rocket and he wants you to persuade him to light it.
And you’re to stay to supper afterwards. Mariella’s away
for the night. Can you face it? ’
c Oh, how glorious! ’

He gave her a hand and she jumped out of the window.
Roddy was in his best mood. He was friendly and talk-
ative; his face was almost wide awake; his very hair looked
alert, ruffled about his forehead; and he was sunburnt
and clear-eyed, at his ease in grey flannels and yellow shirt
and an ancient navy-blue coat.

The river had an enchanted beauty and stillness in the
half-light. It was moon-coloured, with a dying flush in it;
faint opal flickers lit the ripples that broke away on either
side of the canoe.

‘ It won’t be dark enough for a while, yet,’ said Roddy.
c They’ll wonder where I am.’
c Why? Didn’t you tell them? ’
c They didn’t know I’d slip off so soon.’

She blushed. It really looked as if Roddy had come early
in order to have a little time alone with her. He would not
say so; but he twinkled and smiled so gaily that she smiled
back at him, as if giving him secret for delightful secret.
i They’ll tease me,’ he declared.

‘ No. Will they? ’

€ Yes, I assure you ’

* How silly! ’

€ Isn’t it? Do you know, they’ll suspect us of the most
desperate flirtation on this exquisite secluded river.’

4 Will they? ’ She was troubled.

c What common minds! As if a man couldn’t be alone
with a girl without making love to her.’
c Oh, I do agree, Roddy.’

He threw back his head and laughed silently: he had been
laughing all the time. And it had seemed for a moment that
Roddy was prepared for the first time in her memory to
have a little serious conversation.

DUSTY ANSWER

IOI

* Oh, Roddy, how you do laugh at me ! *

£ I can’t help it, Judy. You are so ii credibly solemn.
You don’t mind, do you? Please don’t mind. I adore
people who make me laugh.’

It was that his laughter left her out, making her feel
heavy and unhumorous. If only he would teach her to play
with him, how quick and apt he would fii d her!

1 1 don’t mind,’ she said. £ Only I do wish I could be
ready for you.’

Being himself, was Roddy more likely or less likely to
fall in love with a person he never took seriously?

c You’d forgive anybody, however badly they treated you,
wouldn’t you, Judy? ’

c Forgiving or not forgiving doesn’t mean much to me. I
never could feel wronged. I might not be able to help feel-
ing hurt, but forgiveness wouldn’t come into it.’

€ Hmm! ’ said Roddy. £ Are you sure you’re so civilized?
Personally I never forgive anybody anything. I’m like God.
I love my grievances, and want people to feel them.’

c I know you’re laughing really. I know it isn’t true,
what you say.’

He said quickly, quite seriously:

c I never would forgive a person who made a fool of me.’

£ I wouldn’t like it; but if it only affected myself, it
wouldn’t be important. A thing that happens to yourself
alone doesn’t matter .’ She stopped and blushed painfully,
thinking: < How he’ll mock.’ But instead he looked at her
gravely and nodded, saying:

* I dare say you’re right.’

It was beginning to get dark.

He steered the canoe under the willows into narrow
shadinesses, lit a cigarette and lay back watching her.

* And what will they teach you at college, Judy? ’

No one but he knew how to say i Judy.’

‘I don’t know, Roddy. I’m rather frightened, — not
about the reading, — -about the girls, all the people. I don’t
understand a bit how to live with lots of people. I never

102

DUSTY ANSWER

have. I shall make such mistakes. It oppresses me, such a
weight of lives crammed together in one building, such a
terrifying press of faces. I prefer living alone/

c Don’t get standardized, or I shan’t come and visit you.’
c Will you come and visit me ? ’

* If I ever find myself not too desperately busy/ he said
twinkling.

c I shall look forward to that. Perhaps I’ll see Martin
sometimes too. Perhaps it won’t be so bad. . . . Roddy,
do you realize I’ve never known anyone of my own age
except the gardener’s little girl and one or two local chil-
dren — and all of you? After you left, when we were little,
I was so lonely I ... You don’t know. Daddy would
never let me be sent to school. Now you’re back, I expect
every day to wake up and find you all vanished again/
c We shan’t vanish again/

‘ If only I were sure! ’

< I’m sure/

1 Oh, you! You’re the most vanishing of all. You slip
through my fingers/

c Not I. It’s you who do that/

< 1 ? ’

‘ Yes. You elude. . . / He made a gesture with his
hand. 4 1 don’t understand how you work. You’re an
enigma. You intrigue me/

* I’m very glad/

1 And I’m afraid of you/

* You’re not. You’re only amused at me/
c No. You’re wrong/

He fell silent, smoking and watching her; all his atten-
tion fixed in his eyes. It was as if he could not look away.
Her head swam, and she stammered:

* What are you thinking ? ’

c That it’s a good thing we — agree so — completely about
the standards of conduct proper between the sexes; otherwise
it might be a good thing you’re so exceptionally forgiving/
His voice had an edge of question.

DUSTY ANSWER

103

c Roddy, what are you talking about? ’

‘ Nothing. A slight emotional conflict, —now resolved. ,

He sat up suddenly, brushing some mood all in a minute
from his mind and his eyes and his voice. He lit another
cigarette and started paddling.

Supposing Roddy had been going to s.»y: c Kiss me? ’
. . . Better not to think about it.

The stars were bright now: it must be dark enough for
Martin’s fireworks. Things were happening next-door:
Martin was preparing to celebrate in earnest. He had hung
a row of fairy lanterns all along the eaves of the verandah,
and the lights glowed rose, blue, green and white among the
leaves of the vine. His shadowy figure was moving on the
lawn, and another moved beside it: that was Tony Baring,
Roddy explained, his friend and Martin’s, staying for the
night. Julian was playing the piano; he was visible in
profile against the window.

* What a party, Roddy! And I the only lady. Please
protect me.’

* Oh yes, we all will. We’ll each protect you against all
the others, so you’re fairly safe.’

A sudden light flared up in the garden.

‘Hey!’ said Martin’s voice. ‘Hi! Here everybody!
My fireworks have started. Where the hell has Roddy got
to? I wanted ’

€ Here we are! ’ shouted Judith. ‘ Hullo, Martin! Mar-
tin! We’re here, we’re watching. Hurrah for you, Martin! ’

‘ Oh good! Is that you, Judy? I’ve got some pretty hot
stuff here. Watch! ’

He spoke in the anxious excited voice of a small boy
displaying the charms of his hobby to some indulgently
attentive adult.

‘ Oh, Martin, that’s splendid. Oooh, what a beauty!
How I adore fireworks ! ’

It was essential that dear Martin should be made to feel
his fireworks a success. They had behind them so eager a
purpose of giving amusement to others that they deserved

104

DUSTY ANSWER

tremendous encouragement. You felt he had spent every
penny of his pocket-money on them.

There was a shout of laughter and screams from Julian.
He had left the piano and was joining the others on the
lawn; and the Catherine wheel had broken loose and was
after him, snapping and leaping at his heels.

, A shower of golden sparks went up in a fountain and
poured down over the tulips and wall-flowers. Another
followed; but this time the shower was rainbow-coloured.
The deep talk and laughter of Martin, Julian and Tony
was a strange not quite human chorus in the moonless dark.
c Oh, Roddy, isn’t it exciting? 5
c It is indeed.’

The fireworks became more and more splendid. Long
crystal-white cascades broke and streamed down to the grass.
Things went off in the air with a soft delicious explosion and
blossomed in great blazing coloured drops that lingered
downwards like a drift of slow petals.

6 Oh, Roddy, if only ! They’re so brief. I wish

they were never quenched but went on falling and falling,
so lovely for ever. Would you be content to burst into life
and be a ten seconds’ marvel and then vanish? ’

But Roddy only smiled. On his face was the mask be-
hind which he guarded his personal pleasures and savoured
them in secret.

Suddenly the willow-trees were revealed cloudily in a
crude red light, — then an aching green one, — then one like
the concentrated essence of a hundred moonlights. The
three men on the lawn were outlined in its glare, motionless,
with their heads up. She heard Martin cursing. Something
was a complete failure: it spat twice, threw a thin spark or
so and went out. Then the big rocket took wings with a
swift warning hiss, left in its wake a thick firefly trail and
broke at a great height with a velvety choke of fulfilment
and relief, bloomed rapidly in perfect symmetry, a huge in-
verted gold lily* — then started dropping slowly, flower un-

DUSTY ANSWER 1 05

furling wide from the heart of coloured fl wer all the way
down.

‘Roddy, look at that! Honestly, you feel anything so
lovely must be made by enchantment and th own into the air
with no cause behind it except the — the ^ress of its own
beauty. I can’t connect it with Bryant and May, can you? ’

Then all was gone. There was a splash. A swan drifting
near the canoe shook itself and swirled sharoly, with puffed
wings, into the shadows. Roddy picked a charred stick out
of the water and held it up.

c Signs and wonders! ’ he said. c The swan had a reve-
lation too. Here’s a remedy against fancy, Judy. Wouldn’t
you like to keep it? ’

‘ Throw it away at once.’

He flipped it over his shoulder laughing.

The fireworks were over, and the three men were coming
down towards the water’s edge.

Roddy whispered:

c Shall wc escape ? *

c oh . . :

It was too late.

‘Hullo! Hullo! ’ called the cheerful voice of Martin.
‘ Did you enjoy my fireworks? ’

All at once there was much laughter and talk and greeting,
and she was drawn out of their exquisite aloofness into the
voluble every-day circle. Martin stretched an eager hand
and out she stepped from the canoe among them all. Half-
dazed, she saw shadows of men standing round, appearing
and fading as in a dream, felt dream-like touches of men’s
hands; heard unreal voices bidding good-evening to Judith;
was conscious of dim confusion of movement towards the
house. Did her own face rise so wanly against the darkness,
deep-shadowed under the features, a firm-cut austere mask?
Beneath the masks the hidden eyes held now and then a
straying gleam from the fairy-lanterns. It was all so nearly
a sleeper’s dream that to speak audibly seemed a vast effort.

106 DUSTY ANSWER

Roddy strolled up from the river’s edge, having made
fast the boat. He came close and stood behind her shoulder,
just touching it; and at once the dream broke and every
pulse was alert.

They went into the house for supper.

Tomato-sandwiches and cake, fruit-salad and bananas
and cream, lemonade and cider-cup loaded the table. Martin
had prepared the whole thing himself with a passion of
judicious greed.

Tony Baring sat opposite and stared with liquid expressive
blue eyes. He had a sensitive face, changing all the time, a
wide mouth with beautiful sensuous lips, thick black hair
and a broad white forehead with the eyebrows meeting above
the nose, strongly marked and mobile. When he spoke he
moved them, singly or together. His voice was soft and
precious, and he had a slight lisp. He looked like a young
poet. Suddenly she noticed his hands, — thin unmasculine
hands, — queer hands — making nervous appealing ineffectual
gestures that contradicted the nobility of his head. She heard
him call Roddy * my dear ’; and once c darling and had
a passing shock.

There was a submerged excitement in the room. Mari-
ella’s absence had noticeable effect: there was a lightness of
wit, an ebullience of talk and laughter; gay quick voices
answering each other.

The polished table was blotted over with pools of red
candleshade, and pale pools from the white tulips picked in
honour of the guest. The great mirror opposite reflected the
table with all its muted colours; reflected too the back of
Tony’s broad head and a bit of Roddy in curious profile, and
her own face, lustrous-eyed, dark-lipped, long of neck and
mysterious. When she looked at it she thought it was
transfigured; and she knew who made the electric feeling.

It was time to go home.

But Roddy got up and started the gramophone; then
caught her by the hand and led her out on the verandah.

DUSTY ANSWER

107

‘ One dance/ he said.

6 And then I must go.’

‘ You dance better than ever to-night/

i It’s because I’m so enjoying myself/

He laughed and tightened his arm round her.

‘Judy ■*

* Yes? Oh, Roddy, I do love it when 5 >u say “ Judy.”
Nobody else says it like you/

He bent his face to look into her lifted one with a soft
hidden smile.

c What were you going to say? ’ she asked.

c I forget. When you look at me with your enormous
eyes I forget everything I mean to say/

The gramophone stopped abruptly, with a hideous snarl;
and the form of Julian darted forth like a serpent upon
them.

‘ You’ve waked the boy with that damned noise,’ he said.
1 1 knew you would/

He was gone; and in the succeeding shock of quiet the
wail of Peter floated down to them. Quick footsteps
sounded in the room above ; and suddenly there was silence.

* Oh, Roddy, he was cross/

c Yes/ said Roddy indifferently. c He’s fussier than
twenty old Nannies. The brat’s nurse has gone to see her
sister buried, so he’s looking after him/

* It’s funny how Julian seems to take charge of him,
rather than Mariella/

‘ Oh, Julian’s always got to know best. I expect he told
her she couldn’t be trusted with him. I believe they had
words, — I don’t know. Anyway she went off to London
this afternoon to a dog show or something, and left Julian
triumphant/ Roddy chuckled. c God, he’s a peculiar
man/

1 1 never can believe that baby belongs to Mariella — and
Charlie/

But he gave her no response to that; although, as she spoke

108 DUSTY ANSWER

the name, with stars, lights, voices, music, his shadowed
face, all that was lovely life around her, the pathos of
that death struck her so wildly it seemed he must feel it too
and draw closer to her.

How he watched her!

* Roddy, what are you thinking about? 5

. She pleaded silently, suffocated with strange excitement:
c Let us be frank. There’ll never be another night like this
and soon we’ll be dead too. On such a night let us not miss
one delight, let us speak the truth and not be afraid. Tell
me you love me and I will tell you. You know it’s true to-
night. Never mind to-morrow.*

But he shook his head slowly, smiling.

c I never tell . 5

She turned to go into the house.

c Nor I. But I think one day I will, — tell somebody, one
person, something — the truth, just once, — just to see how it
feels . 5

He followed her in silence into the house.

Martin and Tony were lying in arm-chairs, looking
sleepy.

1 Poor things — longing to go to bed. It’s all right, I’m
going now. I want to say good-night to Julian . 5 *

On such a night Julian must not be left angry, alone.
There must be no failure on her part at least.

* He’s with Peter . 5

c In his old room? *

* Yes . 5

c I know. I’ll be back in a minute.*

She ran up the stairs. Dimmed light streamed through a
door ajar in front of her. It was the room where Julian and
Charlie had slept years ago. Softly she pushed the door open.

Julian sat by the window with the child on his knees.
He had thrown a shawl over his head and out of its folds the
pale face peeped, owl-like and still. In his little night-suit
he looked absurd and touching.

DUSTY ANSWER 109

Julian raised a face so haggard and suffering that she
paused, half-ashamed, uncertain what to say or do.

4 Come in, Judith, 5 he said.

‘ Only for a minute. . . . Won’t he sleep? ’

4 No. I think he’s feverish. He got a fright, waking up
alone. He’s very nervous.’

He bent over the child, rocking him, patting his shoulder.

4 1 expect he’s just playing up. You mght to put him
back in his cot.’

‘No. He’d cry. I couldn’t endure it if he cried any
more. I’ll keep him till he’s asleep.’

Solemn in his shawl, Peter bent his too-brilliant gaze
upon her as she stooped to touch his cheek. He never smiled
for her; but then neither did he greet her as he greeted most
people with a clear: “Go ’way.” He accepted her with
grave politeness.

4 Do you like holding him? ’

4 Yes,’ he said simply.

He was holding the child to comfort himself.

4 He’s very nice,’ she said. 4 What a different sort of
childhood he’ll have from yours, with the others always
round you! He’s likely to be the eldest of the next genera-
tion by a good deal, isn’t he ? ’

4 1 should say so,’ he said bitterly. 4 1 don’t mind betting
not one of us provides a little cousin for him. I don’t see
us breeding somehow. Unless possibly Martin . . .’

Not Roddy. No. . . .

4 Well, you mustn’t let him be lonely.’

4 That’s her affair.’

4 Is it? She seems to let you take charge. Julian, does
she love him? ’

He was silent for a moment before answering: 4 1 think
she does.’ He put his hand to his head and said suddenly,
very low: 4 0 God, it’s awful! You know I quarreled
with him — Charlie — over that marriage. I never saw him
after it — we were never reconciled. But after the child
was born, she wrote and told me he had said in his last

no

DUSTY ANSWER

letter to her that if anything happened to him he would like
me to be the child’s guardian. ... So I suppose he forgave
me.*

4 Of course, of course, Julian,’ she said, half-weeping
at the look of his bowed head.

Was this the canker that gnawed Julian, — interminable
thought of Charlie dead like that, without a reconciling
word?

4 I blame only myself,’ he said, still in the low voice.

4 She has been very good. Never a word of — anything.
Always that sweet empty unresentful way, — like a child.
Somotimes I think she never knew — or never understood,
anyway. I think she can’t understand that sort of thing.
It’s a sort of insensitiveness. She f might hate me over Peter,
but she doesn’t seem to. Why doesn’t she? ’

The expression she had surprised on Mariella’s face came
back to her, still undecipherable.

4 1 almost wish she would,’ he went on. 4 1 wish I was
certain she was jealous or even critical of me. I haven’t the
least idea where I am.’ He rubbed his eyes and forehead
wearily. 4 It’s odd how her presence affects me. She gets
on my nerves to a degree! Nothing but this sweet blank
passivity. . . . You know I like people with spikes and
facets, people who thrust back when I thrust, brilliant,
quick glittering people. And I like people who are slow
and deep and warm ; and I think you’re one of that sort,
Judy. But what is she? Sometimes I think she’s watching
me intently but I don’t know where from, and it makes
me irritable. She’s got quality, you know, — incredible
physical and moral courage. I think that must have been
what Charlie loved in her. But cold, cold and flat — to
me.’

He sighed and shivered.

4 Oh, Julian, you’re very tired, aren’t you? There’s
nothing to worry about. You’ve got things on your mind
because you’re so tired. Does your head ache? ’

4 Yes. No. . . . I’m in a bad mood, Judith. You’d
better leave me.’ But he spoke gently and raised his face

DUSTY ANSWER

III

to smile at her. It was then she saw that he had been
crying.

€ I will leave you, Julian. I only came to say good-night.
And to say I was sorry I made you <ngry. I wouldn’t
have waked him for the world.’

‘ It’s all right. I’m sorry I was ang y. Don’t worry.’

c Good-night, Julian.’

c Good-night Judith. ... You look >o lovely ’

She thought: ‘ I shall never see him like this again. I
must remember. *. . .’

They looked at each other deeply, and when she turned
silently away she had in imagination stooped and kissed his
cheek.

As she opened the door, laughter and talk came sud-
denly to her from below, — a faint roar of male voices
that struck her with strange alarm, and seemed to threaten
her. She took a step back into the room again, listened
and whispered :

4 Julian, who is that Tony? ’

He shrugged.

c I don’t know. He doesn’t talk to me. He writes verse
I believe. He’s just bringing out a book. I gather from
his conversation he is quite the thing at Cambridge — in
certain circles.’

* Is Roddy very fond of him? ’

* Oh, Roddy! Fond of him! I don’t know.’

c He seems to be very fond of Roddy.’

* Yes, it looks like it.’ He glanced at her sharply.

She knew then she had dreaded that he would answer
in that way, give her just such a look. She remembered
that Tony had been suddenly hostile; his eyes stony and
watchful, had fastened on her when she came in from the
verandah with Roddy.

The voices came up to her again, like a reiterated warn-
ing. i Keep away. You are not wanted here. We are all
friends, men content together. We want no female to
trouble us.’

Better not to go down among them all, safer to stay here

1 12

DUSTY ANSWER

in the quiet with Julian. She lingered, looking back in doubt
and loneliness; but this time he did not tell her to stay. The
muffled shining of the lamp filled the room, flowed over
his form, his forehead bowed, drowsy and meditative, one
great shoulder curving forward to support the white bundle
lying against it. His pose suggested the something in him
which it was hard to name, — a kind of beauty and nobility
a little twisted. Close beside his narrow bed stood Peter’s
cot, and Peter’s two plush animals lay upon the pillow.

Softly she closed the door upon that strange pair. If
Mariella had seen them, would her face have changed?

Downstairs again.

It* would not be Roddy who would offer to take her home.
She saw in one glance that he had finished with her for
to-night: he leaned against the mantelpiece, and Tony,
beside him, had an arm about his shoulders; and Tony’s eyes,
coldly upon her, said he was not for her. Something licked
sickeningly at her heart: it was necessary to be jealous of
the young poet Tony; for he was jealous of her. To her
good-night Roddy replied with chilling mock-formal polite-
ness, bowing his head, laughing at her. Martin put her
cloak about her shoulders wtih reverent hands, and they
went out.

The night was dark. All the blossoming things of earth
were hidden, and the fragrances abroad seemed shaken
from the stars that flowered and clustered profusely in the
arching bows of the sky. They were back at her garden-
gate. Above it rose a faint broken shadow where, by day,
lilac and laburnum poured over in a wild maze to the lane.
But when they came to the cherry-tree they found it still
glimmering faintly, — a cloud, a ghost.

Judith stretched up a hand and picked a scrap of cherry
and held it out to Martin.

c That’s the secret of it all, I do think. Cherry blossom
grows from the seeds of enchantment. Keep it and wish
and you’ll have your heart’s desire. Wish, Martin.’

He snatched it and her hand with it. They waited. He

DUSTY ANSWER

113

held the spray and clutched her hand, sighed and said noth-
ing. Their forms were shadows just outlined against the
luminous tree.

4 What were you going to say? ’ she whispered.

1 1 — don’t know.’

4 No wishes? ’

4 Too many.’

He was lost, — caught away, spell-boun J, lost.

4 What a night! Isn’t it, Martin? ’

4 It’s the very devil. 5

4 1 don’t feci a bit like myself, do you? There’s some
sort of queerness about, — magic. Or is it just being young,
do you think? ’

4 Perhaps.’

4 Don’t let’s ever be old. Could you bear it? ’

* I shouldn’t like it.’

4 Well wish that. Wish never to be old.’

Silence.

4 No,’ he said at last. He held her hand still and bent
his head, twisting his bit of cherry. His voice came husk-
ily: 4 I’ve wished something else.’

Gently she drew her hand away. She must run away
quickly from whatever was happening: no emotional con-
flict with Martin must thrust across and confuse the path
where all was prepared for one alone.

4 Don’t go in,’ implored Martin. 4 Can’t we walk? ’

4 Oh, I must — I must go in.’

4 Oh, Judith! ’

4 I must, Martin. Thank you for bringing me home.
I must fly now. It’s so late ’ she said in panic.

4 When shall I see you again ? ’

4 Soon — soon.’

He was speechless. She called a soft good-night and left
him and the darkness swallowed him up.

As she went towards the solitary light burning for her
in the hall she thought with a sudden fear that he had im-
plored her for assurance just as she mutely implored Roddy

DUSTY ANSWER

II4

every time he left her; and she had answered — oh, not,
surely not, as Roddy would have answered?

* Oh, Roddy, come out of your dark maze and make me
certain! 9

She must Warm herself with the remembrance of the
first part of the evening, ignore the little chill of those few
last minutes. What were his eyes telling her when he bade
her good-night? Surely they were whispering: ‘Take no
notice. We know what has passed between us, we know
what must come. Though we must keep our secret before
others, we do not deceive each other/

Ye$, that was it.

She started running; and wondered why; and ran as
hard as she could.

As she opened the front door, she stopped, aghast. The
telephone bell was screaming, screaming, screaming.

Telegram for Judith Earle. From Paris.

€ Father died this evening. Come to-morrow. Mother/

As she hung up the receiver silence in a vast tide flowed
in and drowned the house, his house, as if for ever.

He had been deep in the business of dying while she, his

daughter No. She must not think that way; she

must just think of him dead. What an extraordinary
thing. . . . Last time she had seen him had he looked as
if he were going to die? There came a doubtful indistinct
picture of him — yes — going upstairs to bed, early, not later
than ten o’clock. She had looked up the staircase and seen
him near the top, mounting with a hand on the bannister:
going to bed so early, looking — yes — a little feeble; the
bowed back and slow yielding step, the slightly laborious
stair-mounting of a man getting old — yes — a delicate
elderly man, a little frightening, a little pathetic to see
unexpectedly: for could youth then really depart? He had
been young and he had come upon old age. Some day she
too — she too . . . yes, for a moment she had thought that.
And now he was dead.

She crept to the library and switched on all the

DUSTY ANSWER

115

lights and stared at the portrait of a y^ung man. That
beautiful youth had lived, grown old and died. He had
begotten a daughter who was looking at him and thinking
these things. But the cold portraits of people held them
bound for ever in unreality; they could n^t die: they had not
lived.

She sank into a chair, burying her f ice in her hands,
seeking for a memory that would make her know that he
had lived and died.

She was very small and he, very kind and noble, was tak-
ing her to hear the child-genius play. Her excitement was
too great to bear: she too would be a child-genius; and
when the violin came it wrought on her so violently that she
was sick where she sat. He had been deeply disappointed in
her, his kindness and nobility turned to disgust.

At night, every night for a long time, with the night
light burning, he had sat on her bed and sung softly to her.
He sang 6 Uncle Tom Cobley. 5

“All along out along down along lea . .

Oh, the haunting echo, the loneliness of that! Over and
over he sang the names of the mysterious company of men,
but so softly that the slipping syllables wove round her haz-
ily and fled before she caught them.

Then he sang of a golden apple.

“ Evoe } evoe y wonderful way
For subduing — subduing the hearts of men . . .

Evoe , evoe . . . . The sound started a pang, a question,
a stir of rich sadness that went aching on, through the twice-
sung whisper of the sibilants, right on after the fall, the
lingering soft pause and fall of the last words.

At the end he sang “ Good-night ladies.” When he had
finished she said “ Again”; and he sang it again and yet
again, always more low, till finally it was nothing but a
plaintive sigh. She lay listening with eyes shut, weeping
with sorrow and delight.

DUSTY ANSWER

II 6

u Good-nighty ladics y we’re going to leave you now — ”
That was so sad, so sad!

a Merrily we’ll roll along y roll along y roll along y
Merrily we’ll roll along on the deep — blue — sea.”

She saw a dim swaying far-stretching line of lovely ladies
all in white, waving good-bye upon a dark sea-shore. The
great ship faded away over the waves, bearing further and
further the deep-throated chorus of singers. The long
line swayed, reached vainly forward. Their white hands
glimmered. She saw them fade, alas! fade, vanish out of
sight.

Oh, he had known how to stir mystery in a child. He
had turned sound inside out for hpr, making undreamed-of
music, — and pictures besides, and light and colour. He had
seemed to forget her for weeks at a time, but when he had
remembered, what a more than compensating richness had
come into life! She had planned to grow so beautiful and
accomplished that he would be proud of her and want her
with him always. They were to have travelled together,
famous father and not unworthy daughter, and they were to
have discussed very intellectual topics and she was to have
looked after him when the steps, going upstairs, started, really
started, to have that feebleness. . . . He was to have lived
to be very old and go upstairs on her arm, cherished by her.

No more lessons in Greek: no more hearing him softly
open his door to listen to her playing, — (though he never
praised her, what praise that had been ! ) No more talk — now
and then, when he remembered her, when his eyes dwelt on
.her with interest — of books and pictures and music and fa-
mous people he knew. No second proud visit to Cambridge
with him, no seeing him sigh, smile, dream from an old
don’s window over Trinity Great Court in the sun, after the
lunch-party. The three elderly bachelors had smiled at her,
embarrassed by her presence, doubtful as regards the atten-
tions due to a young lady. They had been shy with her,

DUSTY ANSWER

117

courteous, careful and elegant of speech, a little dusty alto-
gether, but gentle like their rooms, like the old gold light
falling outside on ancient buildings. She had listened to
them all savouring and playing with words, quoting Greek,
saying “ Do you remember? ” He had seemed so distin-
guished, so brilliant, a man ripe and calir with knowledge.
And afterwards he had shown her the coll ges and the Backs
and promised to come often to see her when she came up.
He had talked of his youth and for a moment they had
trembled on the verge of shared emotions: no more of that,
no hope of future rich Cambridge occasions.

No more watching his intent and noble profile in the
lamplight, stooped hour after hour over his writing, op-
posite the bust of Homer. Once or twice he had looked up
and smiled at her as though vaguely content to have her with
him. His desk was empty for ever. That was pathetic; it
would bring tears if dwelt on; it made him so human.

Did it hurt to die?

Now in a flash she remembered the question:

* Daddy, does it hurt to die? *

Years ago. Grandmamma had just died. When he came
to say good-night to her in bed, she had asked him that.

He had remained silent and brooding. His silence filled
her with terror: her heart beat and, red and panic-stricken,
she stared at him. He was going to tell her something
dreadful, he knew something so terrible about Grand-
mamma, about death and the way it hurt that he could
not speak. ... He was going to die. . . . She was.
. . . O God! O Jesus!

At last he had sighed and said:

* No, no. It doesn’t hurt at all to die.’

She had flung herself weeping into his arms, and he had
clasped her in silence; and from his quiet, pressing shoul-
der, comfort had poured in and in upon her.

It did not hurt at all to die, it was quite all right, he had
said. He had just died.

She looked about her, at the brooding room. Nothing but

DUSTY ANSWER

Il8

loneliness, helplessness, appalling silence. She was cold too,
shivering.

A little while ago she had been next door. Now the house
would all be dark, shut to her. Supposing she were to run
back to them with her tidings, surely they would help, ad-
vise, console: for they were her friends.

c Roddy, Roddy, Daddy’s dead.’

He was standing with Tony’s arm around his shoulders,
remote, indifferently smiling. He did not like grief, and
Tony kept him from her. Her time was far away and long
ago.

* Julian, Daddy’s dead.’

He was bowed over the child; and he raised his head to
listen, but made no answer. He had plenty of his own
sorrow's; and he feared she wouM wake the child.

But Martin might be told, Martin would listen and
comfort with large and inarticulate tenderness. He would
be standing under the cherry-tree, waiting, just as she had
left him. She ran to the window.

There was nobody in the garden. A faint light was
abroad, — it might be the small rising moon or the dawn —
making the cherry-tree pale and clear. It seemed to float
towards her, to swell and tower into the sky, a shining vision.

Then death, lovely death, lay at the heart of enchant-
ment. It was the core of the mystery and beauty. To-
morrow she would not know it, but to-night no knowledge
was surer. And he whom they were to mourn was — in
one minute she would know where he was, — one minute.

She leaned out of the window.

Now! Now!

But the cherry-tree was nothing but a small flowering
cherry-tree. Before her straining eyes it had veiled itself
and withheld the sign.

PART THREE

PART THREE

i

J UDITH, looking dazed, shut the doer of the mistress’s
room behind her, and after a qua rer of an hour’s
wandering, found her way back to her o \ r n room. She sat
on a hard chair and said to herself: Independence at last.
This is Life. Life at last is beginning; nit rather because
it seemed so much more like a painful death than because
she believed it.

She surveyed the four walls in which her independence
was to flower. They were papered in sage green with per-
pendicular garlands of white and yellow rosebuds. There
was a desk, a kitchen chair, a cane table, a narrow iron bed-
stead behind a faded buff curtain; and a distinctive carpet.
It was of a greenish-brown shade, striped round the edge
with yellow and tomato-colour, and patterned over with
black liquorice-like wriggles.
c But I can’t live in ugliness . .

A clamorous bell roused her from a state of apathetic
despair; and she opened her door and crept along in the
wake of the click of heels and the laughter of many voices.

This was Hall — huge, bare, full of echoes and hard
light, whiteness and cold blue curtains . . . blue and
high like twilight above ice and snow when the full moon
is rising.

c I can always think of that and not mind if nobody talks
to me. . .

Down one wall, a row of black frocks and white aprons
at attention; at the top of the room, High Table beginning
to fill up: black garments, grey, close-brushed intellectual
heads, serious thin faces looking down the room, one young
one, drooping a little: piles of chestnut hair and a white
Peter Pan collar. Crowds of dresses of all colours, shapes
and sizes, all running about briskly, knowing where to go;
a sea of faces bobbing and turning, chattering, bright-eyed,

121

122

DUSTY ANSWER

nodding and laughing to other faces, sure of themselves.

c Margaret, come and sit here . . . here . . . here!
Next to me! Sylvia, next to me. ... Is there a place
for Sylvia? . . .’

‘ I am lost, lost, abandoned, alone, lost/ thought Judith
wildly and pounced for the nearest chair and clung to it.
She was between two girls who stared at her, then looked
away again. She bowed her head: the old terror of faces
engulfed her.

There fell a silence. A voice like a bell went through the
room, calling: Benedictus , bencdicat. And then came a
roar, — a scraping, an immense yelling that rose to the ceil-
ing and there rolled, broke, swelled again without pause.
Beneath its volumes she felt herself lost again; but nobody
else appeared to have noticed it.

c Can I pass you the salt? ’ said her neighbour.

‘ After you/ said Tudith earnestly.

* Thanks/

The conversation swirled on around her.

‘Who d’you think’s engaged? Three guesses. . . .
Let’s look at the tombstone. Soup how classi-

cally simple . . . just soup. . . . Take a hundred dirty
dishcloths, soak them in hot water, add a few onions.
. . . Dorothy’s bobbed her hair. It suits her. It
doesn’t suit her. . . . My dear, who is that girl next
to you? . . . I’ve done six hours every day this vac . . .
May you be forgiven. . . . Well anyway, four regu-
larly. . . . I’m going to work this term, seven hours
solid, no dances. . . . I’ve got to . . . you should have
heard the jawing I got from Miss Marsh because I only got
a third in Part I. . . . Well I think that was jolly good:
I shall think myself jolly lucky if I get the same. . . , Old
Marsh has lost every human instinct. . . . D’you know
Sibyl Jories has done ten hours every day for two months?
. . . She’s bound to collapse. . . . Third years ought to be
more sensible at their age. ... I say , I do believe Miss
Ingram’s dyed her hair. I’m sure it’s a different colour.

DUSTY ANSWER

123

. . . D’you suppose she’s in love? ... I knew a girl at
Oxford who overworked most fearfully, and she woke up
one morning and every hair on her head had come off and
was lying on the pillow beside her, looking like a nasty prac-
tical joke. Rather a jar, wasn’t it? But -he took to a wig,
my dears, a flaxen waved wig and it was such an improve-
ment that she left off her glasses and became quite flighty
and took to powdering her nose as well, so it was a blessing
in disguise; and then her Maths coach proposed to her and
they got married, and all I wonder is whether he got a
shock or whether she’d warned him, because I s’pose she
takes it off at night and she’s as bald as an egg without it;
but I suppose anyway baldness doesn’t matter in true love.
. . . It’s a warning isn’t it? ’

c Pleasant idiocy,’ said Judith very quietly in the yell of
laughter that followed. £ Idiotic pleasantry.’

i Did you speak? ’ said the girl on her other side.

‘ N-no.’

c I suppose you’ve come up for a little visit? I wonder
whose guest? . . .’

i No, no. I’ve come up for good — I’ve just arrived.

I came up a day late. I ’

c You mean you’re a fresher? ’

‘ Yes.’

€ But you’re at the wrong table ! ’ said the girl, horrified.
c There’s your table at the other end of the room. This is a
second year table.’

c Oh, dear! How awful! Does it matter? I couldn’t
recognize anybody and nobody told me anything. ... I
don’t know a soul. . . She felt the shameful tears com-
ing. Such a bad beginning. . . .

€ Never mind,’ said the girl almost kindly. € It doesn’t
matter for once. And you’ll soon get to know people.
Isn’t there anyone here from your school? ’

< I’ve never been to school. This is the first time I’ve
ever been away from home. . . .’ Stupid weakening
thing to say, inducing self-pity, bringing more tears.

124

DUSTY ANSWER

c Oh, really? 9 said the girl, and added politely after a
pause :

‘ Do you know Cambridge? *

4 A bit. I came once with Da — my father. He simply
adored it. He was always coming back. That’s why he
wanted me to 9

c Oh, really? How naice. I expect he’ll often be run-
ning up to see you then, won’t he? ’

She turned her head away in silence. Never, never would
he be running up to see her, to rescue her. Why had she
mentioned him? He had vanished and left her stranded
among creatures who dared to assume he was still alive. . . .

Trips. Labs. Lectures. Dons. Vacs. Chaperons.
The voices gabbled on. The forks clattered. The roof
echoed.

4 Ugly and noisy,’ muttered Judith. 4 Ugly and noisy
and crude and smelly. . . .’ You could go on for ever.

There were eyes staring from everywhere, necks craning
to look at her. . . .

4 But I can abstract myself. I can ignore their rude-
ness. . .

It was the moonlight filling the blue that made it so cold
and pure. Above the icefields and the snow lay the cold
translucent pastures of the air. ...

She studied the row of faces opposite her, and then more
rows, and more, of faces. Nearly all plain, nearly all with
a touch of beauty: here and there well-cut heads, broad
white placid brows; young necks; white teeth set in pleasant
smiles; innocent intelligent lovely eyes. Accepting, re-
vealing faces they were, with no reserves in them, looking
at each other, at things — not inward at themselves. But
just sl herd, when all was said: immature, untidy, all dull,
and all alike, commonplace female creatures in the mass.
But boring it was! If you could see Mariella’s clear thor-
ough-bred face among them, — would that too get merged?

That was where she should be humbly sitting, among
those quieter heads, right at the end. There was a light

DUSTY ANSWER

125

there, flashing about: the tail of her eye had already caught
it several times. She looked more closely. It was some-
body’s fair head, so fiercely alive that it set med delicately to
light the air around it: a vivacious emphatic head, turning
and nodding; below it a white neck and sh ulder, generously
modelled, leaned across the table. Tht n the face came
round suddenly, all curves, the wide mouth laughing, warm-
coloured. ... It made you think of warm fruit, —
peaches and nectarines mellowed in the sun. It seemed to
look at Judith with sudden eager attention and then to
smile. The eyes were meeting her own, inquiring deeply.

6 Who’s that? ’ said Judith excitedly, forgetful of her
position.

< Oh, one of the freshers. I don’t know her name.’

Her name, her very name would be sure to have the sun
on it.

All at once Judith found courage to eat her pudding.

Another scraping of chairs, and they were all on their
feet. Someone, highly flushed, flew to the door at the edge
of the dais and wrenched it open, holding it back while the
Mighty streamed slowly out. They were gone. The girl
returned, even more highly flushed.

* My dears! Do you think they saw me giggling?
Bunny, you were a beast to make me giggle ! Did I do it all
right? I thought I’d never get it open in time. Miss
Thompson looked so severe: but did you see what a sweet
smile I got from Miss Ingram? Oh, what an experience!
Hold me up someone.’

Willing hands supported her limp form. The roar broke
out again, pouring out of Hall along the corridors.

Judith went back to her room and sat by the window.
Outside, the dusk was chill and deep. The treetops were all
round her window. It was like being in a nest, to sit here
with all the highest boughs swirling round the pane. If only
the corridors did not echo with high voices and strange feet,
if only you could forget the carpet, if only you could turn
round and see Martin — (not Roddy — he was too unreal a

126

DUSTY ANSWER

memory to bring consolation) it might be possible to be com-
forted.

The feet were less frequent now, the voices quieter.
What were the mysterious animals doing? The vast build-
ing was full of them, streaming in and out of their bur-
rows, busy with their strange separate affairs.

Night, dropping across the flat fields of Cambridgeshire
had blotted out a dim west slashed with fire. The tree
trunks threw up their branches in a stiff black net and
caught a few stars.

Now shut your eyes and see the garden at home, the
summer sun wildly rich on the lawn, hear the hot whirr and
pause of the mowing machine; smell the mown grass mixed
with the smell of roses and pinks and lavender; see the white
butterflies dancing above the herbaceous border; see Mamma,
going slowly up the steps with a basket of sweet peas, pause
and draw up the striped Venetian blind; because now it is
evening; the sun is behind the massed, toppling dark-green
luxuriance of the unmoving chestnut trees, has drained its
last ray out of the rooms and left them warm, throbbing and
wan. Now it is night. Go down to the river: they are all
there, waiting in the dark for you. . . . Now there is
only Roddy, coming close, just touching your shoulder, his
head bent to look into your lifted one. Listen and hear him
say: “ Darling ” ... of course it had been in fun. But
his rich voice goes on whispering and repeating it. . . .
His eyes drown again and again with yours. . . .

Then all at once a far train-whistle roused her, cutting
across this immense strangeness with a suggestion of ordi-
nary familiar things; and Judith, faint with homesickness,
sent towards it the desire of all her being to fly in its wake
back to the life she knew. . . .

Impossible to stay in this room. She opened the door and
wandered down the corridor. At the far end was a great
chatter of voices through a half-open door. Peering in she
saw a cloud of cigarette smoke and a room full of girls
sprawling in chairs and on the floor.

DUSTY ANSWER

127

c Who’s captain of hockey? Jane, of course you’re going
to play hockey? And lacrosse. . . . Jane, I must say it’s
topping to see you again. . . . Jane, }our year looks a
dull lot. . . . Who’s the one who planted herself at our
table? . . . Oh, d’you think so? She’s { ot such a haughty
expression . . . sort of superior. . . . Perhaps she’s shy.
. . A clear voice, high and extraor dinarily resonant
cut in. c She’s the most beautiful person I ever saw. I adore
her. . . . Have some toffee someone.’

Judith half-saw half-imagined the flash of a head under
the lamp as she fled past. If that voice . . . that voice
had the sun in it?

She went on downstairs, looked for the fifth time in the
box labelled E for letters addressed to herself, knew for the
fifth time there could be none, and went on again, wander-
ing among the ground-floor corridors; desired in sudden
panic to get back to her room and found she had lost her way.

A girl came out of a door carrying a hot water can.
She wore a pink flannel dressing-gown.

6 Could you tell me,’ asked Judith. * How to get to a
corridor called C? ’

The girl looked at her closely and then beamed behind
her glasses.

c Oh, Miss Earle! Of course! We were up together
for Scholarship Exams. Come in.’

Judith, helplessly conscious that this unpleasant dream
was becoming a definite nightmare, followed her.

c Sit down,’ said the girl. 6 I’m so glad you came to find
me. You remember my name — Mabel Fuller.’

O God! The creature thought she had been singled out
for the purpose of soliciting friendship. . . .

1 1 am so very glad you came to see me. I dare say you
feel very strange? ’

‘ A little. But I’m quite all right, thank you.’

‘ One feels very lonely at first. Never mind. Do you
know any one else? No, nor do I.’ Her eyes glinted.
c We must stick together till we’ve got our bearings. It’s a

128

DUSTY ANSWER

great thing to — I had a friend here once. She said the life
was very jarring — such a whirl. We must try to make our
little rooms as restful as possible. Do come to my room and
work whenever you like. I always think it helps, don’t you,
to have somebody else in the room concentrating.’

Earnestly her eyes beamed and glinted behind their
glasses. Presumably she was kind and well-meaning, but
her skin was greasy and pink was not her colour; and her
lank hair smelt; and when she talked she spat. The colour-
less face had nothing of youth in it. Perhaps this was what
really clever girls looked like.

* I’ve spent to-day putting my room to rights,’ said Mabel,
lookiflg happily round her. * I do enjoy having a little
corner of my own, my own things round me and . . ,
To-morrow I must start work in Earnest. How do you feel
about your work? You’re bound to waste time at first
unless you plan out your day methodically. You must come
and work in here. I won’t disturb you. I’m a very hard
worker myself. I shan’t mix much with the other students.’
She flushed. c I shan’t have time. And then of course
there’s getting into Cambridge for lectures and ... Do
you ride a bicycle? I find since I had pneumonia it tires me
so. . . . We must go to lectures together at first — keep
each other company. . . .’

i Are you reading English too? ’ said Judith with sinking
heart.

c Oh yes.’ Mabel bit her finger nervously. 1 1 didn’t
manage to get a scholarship, you know. It was a disappoint-
ment. I was feeling very poorly and altogether ... I
didn’t do myself justice, Miss Fisher said. She wrote such
a nice letter and ... I was so set on coming here, it
meant so much to me, I want to teach, you know — if my
health permits. ... I haven’t very good health . . .
so with fahat I’d managed to save and a little help from my
mother ... she couldn’t afford it really but when she
saw what it meant to me ... so I must do well. . . . I

DUSTY ANSWER 129

can’t disappoint her. . . . Are you preparing to earn your
living? ’

4 1 don’t know,’ said Judith blankly.

< You don’t look like it,’ said the other hurriedly with a
furtive half-hostile glance at Judith’s clothes. 1 Most girls
who come here have got to depend on the.r brains for a live-
lihood, so of course no one’s got a right t» come here just to
amuse themselves, have they? But I dar r say you’re going
to do very well. Miss Fisher told me this morning you’d
done very good work for the scholarship. Oh yes. She quite
praised you. I thought perhaps . . . some of my notes
and essays might be of use to you. ... I take very full
notes — my memory rather fails me sometimes and then . . .
I thought perhaps if we worked together we might — you
know — help each other. . . . Another mind coming fresh
to a subject. . . . We might . . .’

Her eyes betrayed her: brain-sucker, probing for new
full-blooded life. Judith thanked her politely and rose to go.

‘ Don’t hurry,’ said Mabel. c I’ll make you a cup of
cocoa. I always think cocoa’s so nourishing.’

She busied herself with a saucepan over the fire and
breathed stertorously through her nose. Her skin glistened
unhealthily in the firelight. The room was very close, full
of pink casement cloth, and china ornaments. She had not
minded the carpet: she had decorated the room to suit it.
On the mantelpiece stood many photographs of creatures
stoutly whaleboned about the throat or heavily whiskered
and collared according to sex; and alone on top of the book-
case was set the incongruous lovely photograph of a girl with
curly bobbed hair. The large eyes laughed at you mischiev-
ously: the face insisted on being looked at — a soft face ,
sensuous and wilful, with a wide bow of a mouth; the smile
a trifle consciously sweet, but irresistible.

€ Oh, how pretty! ’ said Judith delightedly.

* My sister Freda,’ said Mabel. ‘ Yes, she’s generally
admired.’ She glanced suspiciously at Judith, as if to inter-

DUSTY ANSWER

130

ccpt the look of one saying incredulously: ‘ Your sister? 9
But Judith only looked dreamy.

For which minded most: Mabel because' Freda was so
pretty, or Freda because Mabel was so repulsive? Or were
they fond of each other, sharing confidences and joking
about Freda’s lovers? . . . And was Freda vain and
heartless or . . .

‘‘ Here’s your cocoa/ said Mabel. ‘ Drink it hot/

It was thick and syrupy, and Judith gave up after a few
sips; but Mabel drank hers with obvious relish and ate
doughnuts greedily out of a bag.

And did Mabel’s mother console her by saying she was
proud to have a clever daughter at College? — because she
couldn’t say, for instance, with any truth: ‘Your hair,
Mabel, is of a much finer quality' than Freda’s ’ — there was
nothing of that sort to be said. Or did she pet Freda and
neglect Mabel? . . .

‘ I really must go now/ said Judith. ‘ Thank you very
much. Good-night.’

‘Would you like to go for a walk with me on Sunday
after church? We might go and hunt for pretty autumn
leaves and berries. I always think they make a room look
so bright. . . .’

‘ Thank you very much/

College leaves, college berries, picked with Mabel. . . .

Supposing you looked like Mabel, would you love beauty
even more passionately, or be so jealous of it that you hated
it?

Her eyes yearned at Judith. It was curious: they had in
them a sort of avid glint — almost like the eyes of old men
in railway-carriages. . . . And did Freda maliciously en-
courage her to wear pink flannel ? And . . .

‘ One thing more/ she said. ‘ I do hope you won’t al-
low yourself ... I mean we mustn’t allow ourselves to
-—to get into a foolish set. It’s so difficult to know at first.
• . . There’s a set here, I’m told ’ — she paused, flushing
unbecomingly to her forehead — ‘ there’s a set here that

DUSTY ANSWER

131

thinks a great deal too much about — about going out, and
dancing, and — men — all that sort of sill ness. . . . There,
I’m sure you don’t mind my telling you You can always
come to me for advice. . . . I’m told Me Mistress judges
so by the people we go about with. . .

‘ Good night, Miss Earle,’ she bnished earnestly.
‘ There’s your way: up the stairs and turn to the right.
I’ll look out for you at breakfast to-morrow.’

Black Mabel. Haunted days and nights stretched out.
No hope. No escape. Three years of Mabel settling
down like a nightmare-bat, blotting out the light. No-
body but Mabel was going to speak to you for three
years.

She passed two maids, flaxen-haired, red-cheeked, thick-
featured Cambridgeshire types. They were turning out the
lights in the corridors; and they smiled broadly at her.
Maids were always nice, anyway.

‘ Good night,’ she said shyly.

‘ Good night, Miss.’

At the corner of the corridor she heard one remark to
the other: 6 There’s a sweet faice.’

A little comforted, she came to her own room, undressed
and dropped a few tears.

If he could have known how very unlike his Cambridge
this place was! Too late now. . . . There was not a spire,
not a light of Cambridge to be seen, not a whisper to be
heard. Almost she could believe something Childe Roland-
ish had happened to it and it was gone; so that even its un-
seen nearness was no comfort.

‘ Come in,’ she said in startled response to a tap at her
door. Someone stood there in a dressing-gown, with bright
hair rolling over her shoulders.

‘Oh! ’ cried Judith in uncontrollable rapture. ‘I did
hope . .

They gazed at each other, blushing and radiant.

‘ I saw you at Hall.’

‘ Yes. I saw you.’

DUSTY ANSWER

I3 2

* I sat at the wrong table. It was awful/

‘ I wish you’d been sitting beside me. . . . What’s
your name? ’

‘ Judith Earle. What’s yours? 7

‘ Jennifer Baird.’

Yes. Jennifer was the right name.

‘ That’s a nice name.’

c Why didn’t you come yesterday? ’

‘ I just forgot. I muddled the date. . . . Wasn’t it an
awful beginning? ’ They laughed.

‘ I always make muddles, don’t you? I never remember
dates and things.’

‘ Nor do I.’

They laughed again.

‘ I am thankful to find you, I can tell you,’ said Jennifer.
‘ I was thinking I should be obliged to leave.’

‘So was I.’

They beamed at each other.

‘ This is the third time I’ve come to find you. Where on
earth have you been? I was afraid you’d locked yourself
into the lavatory to cry or something.’

‘ I’ve been . . .’ Judith laughed happily. * I’ve been
with something awful.’

‘What?’

‘ It’s called Mabel Fuller.’

‘My God! Fuller. Has she pounced on you already?
She tried me this morning. It’s a funny thing, — she
makes straight for the pretty ones. That sounds as if I
meant I was pretty.’

‘ So you are.’

‘ I only meant I wasn’t so hideous as her and you’re
lovely. She’s a vampire-bat. D’you know, I found out
something: she’s twenty-seven at least. Think of it! I
was rudfc to her. I suppose you weren’t. I should say you
were much more well-bred than me.’

‘ I wondered if she wasn’t a tiny bit pathetic? ’

‘ God, no! What an idea! She hasn’t a notion how re-

DUSTY ANSWER

133

volting she is. She actually prattled about dress to me, —
wondering how she’d look in a jumper like mine. As if
anything but an Invisible Cloak would improve her. I can’t
stand people who spit when they talk.’

c I do wonder,’ pondered Judith, c how people like that
get produced from quite normal parents. It must be the
working-out of some ancient and fearful ourse.’

‘ She’s an ancient and fearful curse anyway,’ said Jen-
nifer gloomily. c I’ll tell you another thing. I believe she’s
got sex-repression.’ She stared impressively at Judith; then
broke into loud whistling. ‘Have you got a cigarette?
Never mind . . . I’ve just learnt to blow smoke-rings.
I’ll teach you.’ More whistling. ‘ It’s terrible to be so
swayed by appearances. I’m afraid it’s a sign of a weak
character. Ugly people rouse all Hell’s devils in me. And
beautiful ones make me feel like the morning stars singing
together. I want beauty, beauty, beauty. . . . Don’t
you? Lovely people round me, lovely stuffs, lovely colours
— lashions and lash ions of gorgeous things to touch and
taste and look at and smell.’ She flung her head back on its
round white throat and took a deep sighing breath. ‘ O
colours! • . . I could eat them. I’m awfully sensuous—
I look it, don’t you think? Or do I mean sensual? I al-
ways get them muddled; but I know it’s unladylike to be
one of them. I say — why didn’t you speak to me after
HaH? ’

c Oh, how could I? (You had people all round you. I
passed your room, and there were dozens of girls in it.’

c Oh yes! Creatures I was at school with. I had a year
in Paris after I left school. I think it developed me. I feel
so much more mature than my contemporaries. I used to
hunt at Chantilly. Have you ever done that? . . . They
were all talking about you.’

€ I heard them say I had such a haughty expression. I
haven’t, have I? ’

* Of course not. That’s women all over. I wonder if
men are really nicer? I suppose you’re not engaged? ’

DUSTY ANSWER

134

‘Oh no! ’

‘ Nor am I. I don’t suppose I shall ever marry. I’m too
tall, — six foot in my stockings. It’s awful, because I’m sure
I shall always be falling in love myself — and I’m terrified
of getting repressions. Are you in love? ’

Judith thought of Roddy, blushed and said no.

. ‘ Oh well, you’re too young I suppose. I’m twenty and
two months — God! . . . Perhaps we shall both get en-
gaged while we’re here. Me first, I hope.’ She chuckled
deeply.

‘ But we shan’t have time for anything except work/
said Judith. ‘ Mabel says we’re expected to do at least
eight hours a day.’

‘Christ! Does she though! Just the sort of miserable
immorality she would feed you up with. We’re in the
world to enjoy ourselves, not to pass exams, aren’t we?
Well then ... I have a prejudice against intellectualism.
It leads to all sorts of menaces. Perhaps you don’t know.

. . . I dare say you were brought up in blackest ignor-
ance, — like me. But I’ve managed to overcome all obstacles
in the way of enlightenment. Do you call innocence a vir-
tue? I don’t. I call it stupidity.’ She talked on so rapidly
that her words ran into each other and got blurred. Lean-
ing heavily on the mantelpiece she continued. ‘Are these
photographs your people? They look divinely aristocratic.
You’re not an Honourable are you? You look as if you
might be. Come and see my room. I say, let’s make our
rooms absolutely divine, shall we? ’

‘ Mother told me to get whatever furniture and things I
wanted,’ said Judith. ‘ But what’s the good with that
carpet? ’

‘ I’ve turned mine upside down,’ said Jennifer. ‘ It’s
an artistic buff now. Come and look.’

She led the way back to her room and opened the door
upon a scene of chaos. Her clothes had been half-unpacked
and left about in heaps. The room was full of smoke and
reeked of stale Gold Flakes. Gramophone records, biscuits,

DUSTY ANSWER 1 35

apples, cake-knives, spoons, glasses and cups smeared with
cocoa-sediment were strewn about the floor.

‘ It isn’t as nice as I thought,’ said Jenni ter. c The swine
have feasted and rioted; and left me to ch ar up after them.
Christ! What a spectacle! Have an ap >le.’

She sat down in her trunk and looked d, scouraged.
c I say, Judith Earle, do you think you’re going to enjoy
College? ’

c Not much. It’s so ugly and vulgar.’
c It is. And the students are such very jolly girls.’

* Yes. And I’m frightened of them. I don’t know a
soul. I’ve never in my life been with a lot of people and I
don’t feel I shall ever get used even to the smell of them.
It’s different for you. You’ve heaps of friends already.’

i Nonsense. There’s no one. I’ve been screeching like
a parrot all the evening, pretending to be awfully jolly
too; but it strikes me as pretty grim. . . .’ She brooded
and whistled. ‘ More than a little grim. . . She
drooped, flickered out completely.

c We’d — we’d better stick it out together,’ said Judith
with a blush, fearful lest her suggestion should condemn her
to Jennifer — for Mabel had said it and she had felt sick.

c I should say we will. A thing’s much less bloody if you
can talk about its bloodiness to someone else. Do you mind
the word bloody? I noticed you flinched. It’s all a ques-
tion of habit.’ She revived — c Christ! To think only a
few days ago I was stalking in Scotland with my angel cous-
ins! It’s a very broadening thing for a young girl to have
boy-cousins of her own age. I’m indebted to them for a lot
of useful information — about sex and one thing and an-
other. One of them gave me a bottle of champagne as a
parting present. We’ve been drinking it — out of tooth
glasses. Ugh! I dare say I’m a little tight. Don’t you
think so? One’s got to do something. ... I’d offer you
some, but I’m afraid the swine finished it. The bottle’s in
the cupboard.’ She climbed over a trunk, opened the cup-

DUSTY ANSWER

136

board door and looked in. * As I thought. Not a
drop. . . .’

There was a silence. She lit a cigarette, formed her full
and vivid lips into an O and struggled painstakingly with
smoke-rings.

The suddenness, thought Judith — the sureness, the excite-
ment! . . . glorious, glorious creature of warmth and
colour! Her blue eyes had a wild brilliance between their
thick lashes: they flew and paused, stared, flew again. . . .
Oh, Jennifer! . . .

‘ Isn’t it awful,’ said Jennifer, ‘ to have enlightened
parents? They never ask you whether you care to be en-
lightened too, but offer you up from the age of ten onwards
as a living sacrifice to examiners. And then they expect
you to be grateful. Hmm! ’ She glowered at the photo-
graphs of a pleasant-looking couple on the mantelpiece.
‘ God! I’m tired. Give me a hand out of this trunk, and
I’ll get to bed.’

She struggled up, slipped off her dressing gown and stood
revealed in striped silk pyjamas.

c Too late for my exercises to-night,’ she said. ‘ Are
you keen on muscle? It’s more womanly not to be. I’ve
over-developed mine. I can lend you a book called “ How
to Keep Fit ” with pictures of young men in loinrcloths.
You look wiry. Can you run? ’

* Yes — and climb — - — ’ said Judith excitedly.

‘Oh! ... I can’t imagine you doing anything ex-
cept wander about looking innocent and bewildered. We
might have some tests to-morrow! ’

She went to the window, opened it wide and leaned out.
Judith came and stood beside her. The night was still, dark
and starry.

* The grounds are beautiful,’ murmured Judith.

‘ Yes — great trees ’ she murmured softly back.

‘ And nightingales, I believe, in spring.’

* Nightingales . . .’

‘ Oh, there’s lots of things to look forward to,’ said

DUSTY ANSWER

137

Jennifer, turning round and smiling full at Judith. Their
eyes sparkled and flashed: sympathy flowed like an electric
current between them. She went on:

c Oh Lord! Look at my bedroom. I’ll just clear a space
and sleep among the wreckage. Won’t m\ gyp be pleased?
It’s best to begin as I shall certainly go on, so I’ll leave it to
her. She’ll like it as soon as I’ve won her heart. . . . Good
night, Judith. I must tell you most people call me Jane.’

‘ I shall call you Jennifer. It’s delicious, — different
from anyone else. It’s like you.’

From the pillow Jennifer’s face broke into shy smiles,
like a gratified child’s.

Judith busied herself quietly in the sitting-room, tidying
the cups and knives, — enjoying the novel sensation of ren-
dering service. After a few moments she called:

1 You wouldn’t suppose from their conversation that these
girls are intellectual — would you? ’

There was no reply. After a few more minutes she
peeped into the bedroom. Jennifer’s peaceful flushed coun-
tenance and regular breathing greeted her astonished senses.

She was sleeping the sleep of the slightly intoxicated just.

2

The Indian summer stretched out through October that
year. The closing harmonies were so complete that the
gardens of the earth seemed but to repeat and enrich the
gardens of the sky; and a day like a sunflower broadened to
a sunset full of dahlias and late roses; with clouds above
them massed, burnished and edged with bloom like the fo-
liage of the trees of earth. Slowly at night the chill mists,
bitter-sweet in smell, luminous beneath the moon, crept over
and blotted all out.

The weeks drifted on. College became a pleasant habit.
Lecturers ceased to be oracles. Work ceased to be important.
Young men stared in lecture rooms and streets. There grew
the consciousness of fundamental masculine apartness: of

DUSTY ANSWER

138

the other sex mysteriously calling to and avoiding it across
an impassable gulf. Bookshops became places in which to
wander and browse whole mornings. Towards the town,
back from the town, the long road stretched out daily be-
tween the flat ploughed fields: the immense and crushing arc
of the sky was swept forever with rich changes.

And the buildings, — the fall of sunlight and shadow on
grey stone, red stone, the unblurred design of roofs and
walls at dusk, — the buildings lifted their bulk, unfolded
their pattern, glowed upon the mind by day and by night,
breaking in upon essays, disturbing time-papers.

Jennifer’s shining head, curved cheek, lifted white throat
lay against the blue curtain, just beyond the lamplight.
Very late she sat there and said nothing, did nothing; made
you lift eyes from the page, watch her, dream, wait for her
smile to answer yours.

The garden, the river, the children next door were far
away. Sometimes when you listened, there was nothing to
be heard, not even Roddy; sometimes the bird-calls, the wet
green scatters of buds, the flowering cherry-tree; sometimes
the sunny mown lawn in stripes, the red rambler clouds
heavy on the hot wall; sometimes the mists, the bloom on the
clouds, the fallen yellow leaves in the dew; sometimes the
rooks rocking in the blown treetops, the strong dark bewil-
dering pattern of bare branches swirling across the sky, the
tragic light crying out for a moment at sunset, haggard
through torn clouds, then drowned again: sometimes these
moved in their seasons through the garden so faintly behind
your shut eyes they stirred no pang. Sometimes the silent
group waiting in the darkness by the river had vanished as
if they had been childish things put away.

Time flowed imperceptibly, casting up trifles here and
there upon its banks.

3

King’s Chapel at Evensong. The coloured windows
faded gradually out: only a twilight blue was left beneath

DUSTY ANSWER

139

the roof: and that died too. Then, only the double rows
of candle-flames gave light, pointing anti floating above
the immemorial shadows of the floor and the shadows of
benches and the shadowed faces of old men and youths.
Hushed prayer echoed; and the long rol. ng organ-waves
rose and fell, half-drowning the singing and setting it free
again. All was muffled, flickering, subrm rged deep under
cloudy water. Jennifer sat there motionless, wistful-eyed
and unconscious, neither kneeling nor standing with others,
but leaning rigidly back with eyes fixed and brilliant.

And afterwards came the emerging into a strange town
swallowed up in mist. White surprising faces glimmered
and vanished under the lamps. The buildings loomed form-
lessly in the dense sky, picked out by dimly-lit windows, and
forlorn lanterns in the gateways. The life of Cambridge
was thickly enshrouded; but under the folds you felt it stir
more buoyantly than ever, with sudden laughter and talk
dropping from the windows, weighing oddly in the air: as if
the town were encouraging her children to sleep by drawing
the curtain; while they, very lively at bedtime, went on play-
ing behind it.

4

The lecture room window-pane was full of treetops — a
whirl and sweep of black twigs on the sky. The room
swam and shone in a faint translucent flood; and a bird
called on three wild enquiring notes. These skies of Feb-
ruary twilights had primroses in them, and floods; and with
the primroses, a thought of green.

The small creakings, breathings and shufflings of the lec-
ture room went on. The men: rows of heads of young
looking hair; bored restless shoulders hunched beneath their
gowns; sprawling grey flannel legs. The women: attentive
rather anxious faces under their injudicious hats; well-
behaved backs; hands writing, writing. Clods, all of them,
stones, worse than senseless things.

140

DUSTY ANSWER

The lecturer thought smoothly aloud, not caring who
besides himself listened to him.

It was a situation meet for one of those paragraphic poems
beginning

“ The solemn greybeard lecturer drones on ; ”

and after a few more lines of subtly satirical description
some dots and a fresh start:

“Sudden a blackbird calls ... Ah sweet! Who
heeds? ”

No one heeds. Attention to greybeards has made everyone
insensible to blackbirds. The conclusion would develop
neatly along those lines. f

A year or two ago, how fervently you would have writ-
ten, how complacently desired to publish that sort of thing!
No regret could be quite so sickly as that with which one
wished out of existence the published record of last year’s
errors of taste.

‘ My dear, he’s the sort of person who’d make arrange-
ments to have his juvenilia published after his death.’

That was the sort of condemnatory label Tony and his
friends would attach, spreading their hands, leaving it at that.

* Oh, Roddy, where are you? Why do you never come? ’

He flashed into mind, — leaning idly against the mantel-
piece, listening with an obscure smile to Tony’s conversation.

It was the sort of evening on which anything might
happen. Excitement took her suddenly by the throat and
made her feeble and tingling to her finger-tips.

The last of the light fell lingeringly on the grey stone
window-frame. If the gold bloom lasted till you counted
fifty, it would be a good omen. One, two, three, four and
so on to’ twenty, thirty, forty . . . crushing the tempta-
tion to count faster than her own heartbeats . . . forty-
five . . . fifty.

BUSTY ANSWER 141

It was still there, vanishing softly, but with a margin of
at least another twenty to spare.

The ecstasy grew, making her stomach feel drained and
helpless and beating in odd pulses all over her.

She bent over the desk, pretending to write, and making
shaky pencil marks.

Somebody got up and switched on the light; and all at
once darkness had fallen outside, and the window-pane was
a purple-blue blank.

Roddy was in Tony’s room, leaning against the mantel-
piece, quite near. She would pass Tony’s staircase on her way
out: it was the one in the corner, facing the Chapel. She had
seen his name every time she went by. Once she had met
him coming out of the doorway, and he had looked through
her; and once as she passed, someone in the court had shouted
4 Tony ’ ! and he had leaned from his high window to reply.

Oh, this intolerable lecture!

Suddenly it was over. She came out and saw the bulk
of King’s Chapel in the deep twilight with its row of but-
tresses rising up pale, like giant ghosts.

4 Oh, I’ve left my essay behind in the lecture room. I
must go back. Don’t wait for me.’

She went back a few steps until the gloom had swallowed
them, and waited alone in the dark court. There was a
light in Tony’s window. Lingeringly she crept towards it
and paused beneath it, stroking the wall. She lifted her
head and cried speechlessly: i Oh come! Come! ’

Nobody came and looked out through the uncurtained
pane. Nobody came running down the stairs.

And if she did not go on quickly the bus would start
without her.

Let it start and then walk up and knock on Tony’s door
and say quite simply:

“ I’ve missed my bus, so I’ve come to see Roddy.” Roddy
would spring forward to greet her. All would be made
right with Tony.

142

DUSTY ANSWER

For a moment that seemed the clear, delightful inevitable
solution.

But what would their faces hide from her or betray?
What unbearable amusement, suspicion, astonishment,
contempt?

And what was there to do on such a night save to say
to Roddy: 44 I love you,” and then go away again? To dare
everything, run to him and cry :

1 am Lazarus come from the dead ,

Come back to tell you ally 1 will tell you all.

But what if he should answer with that disastrous answer:

That is not what 1 meant at ally
That is not it y at all .

If he were to stare and coldly reply, with real speech:

4 Are you mad? ’

Oh, but it should be risked ! . . .

She stood still, hesitating, her hand pressing the wall,
power and intoxication dying out of her. She felt the night
cold and damp, and heard approaching footsteps, a torn
fragment of laughter, a male voice raised for a moment in
the distance.

She looked up once more at Tony’s window and saw
that the curtains had been drawn; and she sprang away from
the wall and ran towards the street in urgent flight from her
wound, from the deliberate-seeming insult, the cruelty of
drawn curtains.

The college bus was packed with girls. Heads were
craning out in search of her.

4 Oh, Judy! There you are! We’ve been keeping the
bus and keeping it. What on earth happened to you? ’

4 1 couldn’t get in. The room was locked. And then —
Oh dear, I’ve run so! Is there room for me? 9

4 Yes, here. Come on, Judy. Here. Come and sit down.
You’re all out of breath. Come in.’

DUSTY ANSWER

*43

They welcomed her. Their little voces and gestures
seemed to stroke and pat. They were so glad she had come
in time, so considerate and kindly, so safe.

The bus rolled through the streets, past where the
solemn lamps and the buildings ended, out on to the road
where was only the enveloping night wind. The bus
swayed and the rows of bodies swayed and the faces smiled
faintly across at each other, amused at their own shaking
and jerking; but all half-dreaming, half-hypnotized by the
noise and the motion; all warm, languid, silent.

The noise and the motion and the swaying faces seemed
eternal. Nothing else had ever been, would ever be. Of
course Roddy had not been there: he had never been there
at all.

5

Martin was a great athlete. He was always rowing,
always training; but once or twice he borrowed a motor-
bicycle and came out to tea, when Judith and Jennifer gave
combined tea-parties to young men. On these occasions
his face was very red and he looked too big for the room.
He was quite silent and stared with concentration at Judith
and Jennifer alternately; and seemed not to take to his
fellow guests. He was undoubtedly a heavy young man to
have at a tea-party — a bad mixer. Jennifer’s jokes, oaths
and sallies brought no gleam to his countenance, and Jen-
nifer was bored with him. Impossible to convince her that
Martin was not a dull young man.

Martin dull? . . .

God-like in form he dived from the raft and swam over
the river, swiftly, with laughter, water and sun upon his
face. He sat among them all and smoked his pipe, looking
kindly and comforting. You could depend on his eyes solici-
tously watching, his smile inviting you to come in, when all
the others, neither kindly nor comforting, had shut the door
and gone away. He was the one to whom Mariella chat-
tered at her ease and made little childish jokes, calling him

DUSTY ANSWER

144

4 darlin’,’ looking at him with candour and affection, some-
times even with a glint of mischief, as if she were a girl like
any other girl; as if that something never fell across her
clear face and obscured it. He shared a bedroom with
Roddy; had a little screen at home, so he said, which Roddy
had decorated, and given to him; he came walking up gar-
den-paths with Roddy laughing and talking at his side.

In the darkness under the cherry-tree he bent his head and
tried to speak, twisting his scrap of cherry, trembling with
enchantment. He had been a thing to fly from, surprised,
with beating heart.

But when Jennifer said he was a dull young man, it was
very difficult to argue with her; for it seemed almost as if,
transplanted alone to this new world, he were indeed quite
dull, rather ordinary.

He came to tea three times. The last time Judith went
with him down the stairs — his deliberate, assured masculine
tread sounding significant, almost alarming in that house of
flustered uneven foolish-sounding steps — and said good-
night to him at the front door.

Fumbling with the lamps of his motor-bicycle he said:

4 Why can’t one ever see you alone? ’

4 It’s not allowed, Martin. I can’t ask you to tea alone.
And I can’t come to your rooms without a chaperon.’

4 Oh, damn the chaperon. I shan’t ask you to tea at all.
Can’t you break a footling rule for anybody you know as
well as me? ’

She said deprecatingly that it was impossible.

4 You mean you won’t.’

That was what she meant. It was not worth while to
break rules for dull Martin.

4 Who’s that Jennifer person you’re always with? ’

4 A person I’m very fond of ’ She flared at his tone.

4 Never 'see you anywhere without her,’ he muttered.

4 Well you needn’t come to tea with me.’

4 Oh, I shan’t come again.’

4 1 shan’t ask you.’

DUSTY ANSWER 1 45

Silence fell. She looked up at the dark and starless sky;
then at him still adjusting lamps, his head averted.

What were they about, parting in anger? How far in-
deed they were from the other world to mistrust and mis-
understand so obstinately they had to quaml!

Her heart misgave her suddenly at sight of the great
building looming above her: there was no -ecurity in it, no
kindness. Supposing when she went back Jennifer’s room
were empty, and Jennifer, utterly weary of her, had taken
the chance to escape, and were even now knocking at
strangers’ doors, sure of her welcome? . . . How quickly
without that form, that voice, all would crumble and dis-
solve and be but a lightlcss confusion ! She should never have
left the places where Martin stood by her side, listening,
watching, waiting everywhere to wrap her in safety.

She said softly:

4 Martin, when’s Roddy coming to see you? ’

4 He was here,’ said Martin, 4 a week or two ago. Staying
with Tony Baring,’ he added. And then again: 4 Only
for a night or two.’

Then finally trying in great embarrassment to soothe the
pain which, even to his ears, cried out terribly in the silence
and could not find words to cover it:

4 I scarcely saw him myself. He was very busy — so many
people to see. He’ll be up again soon, I expect and then we
must have a party.’

4 Oh yes, Martin. ... You know, it’s very naughty
of him. He said he’d come and see me.’

Her voice was thin and cheerful.

4 He’s very forgetful,’ said Martin helplessly.

4 1 suppose,’ she suggested lightly, 4 he forgot even to
ask after me.’

4 Oh no, he asked after you. I’m sure he did.’

She laughed.

4 Well I must go in. ... Tell him when you write to
him . . . No, don’t tell him anything. But, Martin, you
must come and see me sometimes, please, f lease , — in this

DUSTY ANSWER

146

hateful place. I feel I shall lose you all again. You know
mother’s going to live abroad for a year or two? So I shan’t
be there in the summer, next door. It’s awful. She let the
house without telling me. What shall I do without it?
Please come and see me. Or listen, I tell you what: it
doesn’t seem to work somehow, your coming here. I can’t
talk to you and I feel I don’t know you; but when the days
get longer we’ll go for a long walk together, miles and
miles. Shall we? Remember! ’

‘ Rather! ’

He was happy again.

She called after him:

* And, Martin, I’m sorry I was cross.’

* My fault,’ came his ringing cheerful voice; and his
engine started and he departed with a roar and a rush.

Alone in the dark she stood still and contemplated the
appalling image of Roddy risen up again, mockingly assert-
ing that only he was real; that his power to give himself or
withhold himself was as the power of life and death.

It was urgent, now, to find Jennifer quickly. She was in
her room, lying on the floor, staring at the flicker of fire-
light over her yellow velvet frock.

* Oh, Jennifer! ’

Judith sank down beside her, burying her face in her lap.

1 Darling.’

c I’m not very happy to-night. It’s a mood. I think I
don’t feel very well. And the night seems so sad and uneasy,
with this wind. Don’t you feel it? ’

Jennifer put out her hands and clasped them round
Judith’s face, gazing at her sombrely.

* What has he said to you? ’ she whispered.

‘ Who? ’

c That Martin.’

c Nothing. It’s nothing to do with him.’

* You love somebody, I think. Who is it you love? ’

* 1 love nobody.’

DUSTY ANSWER 1 47

Jennifer must never never know, suspect, dream for a
moment. . . .

‘ You mustn’t love anybody, 5 said Jennifer. * I should
want to kill him. I should be jealous. 5 Her brooding eyes
fell heavily on Judith’s lifted face. * I lo>e you. 5

And at those words, that look, Roddy faded again harm-
Tessly: Jennifer blinded and enfolded her tenses once more,
and only Jennifer had power.

When the longer days came and Martin wrote to ask her
to come for a walk one Sunday, she had another engagement
and regretfully refused; and after that he wrote to tell her
to bring a friend to a river picnic with him and another
young man. She brought Jennifer; and Jennifer flirted
broadly with the other young man; and the picnic was not
a success.

After that the year closed without sight or sign of him;
and she forgot to care.

6

Gradually Judith and Jennifer drew around them an
outer circle of about half a dozen; and these gathered for
conversation in Jennifer’s room every evening. That untidy
luxuriant room, flickering with firelight, smelling of oranges
and chrysanthemums, was always tacitly chosen as a meet-
ing-place; for something of the magnetism of its owner
seemed to be diffused in it, spreading a glow, drawing tired
heads and bodies there to be refreshed.

Late into the night they sat about or lay on the floor,
smoked, drank cocoa, ate buns, discussed — earnestly, muddle-4
headedly — sex, philosophy, religion, sociology, people and
politics; then people and sex again. Judith sat in a corner
and watched the firelight caress and beautify their peaceful
serious faces; talked a great deal suddenly now and then,
and then was silent again, dreaming and wondering.

Even the most placid and commonplace faces looked tragic,

DUSTY ANSWER

148

staring into the fire, lit by its light alone. They were all
unconscious; and she herself could never be unconscious.
Around her were these faces, far away and lost from them-
selves, brooding on nothing; and there was she, as usual,
spectator and commentator, watching them over-curiously,
ready to pounce on a passing light, a flitting shade of expres-
sion, to ponder and compare and surmise; whispering to her-
self: * Here am I watching, listening. Here are faces,
forms, rooms with their own life, noise of wind and foot-
steps, light and shadow. What is this mystery? . . / And
even in her futile thoughts never quite stepping over the edge
and staring mindlessly and being wholly unaware.

They broke up at last with sighs and yawns, lingered,
drifted away little by little. Judith was left alone with
Jennifer. *

1 One more cigarette/ she suggested.

1 Well, just one/

Jennifer let down her hair and brushed it out, holding it
along her arm, watching it shimmer in the fire-light with an
engrossed stare, as if she never could believe it was part of her.

Always Jennifer. It was impossible to drink up enough of
her; and a day without her was a day with the light gone.

Jennifer coming into a room and pausing on the threshold,
head up, eyes wide open, darting round, dissatisfied until they
found you. That was an ever fresh spring of secret happi-
ness. Jennifer lifting you in her arms and carrying you
upstairs, because she said you looked tired and were such a
baby and too lovely anyway to walk upstairs like other
people.

Jennifer basking in popularity, drawing them all to her
with a smile and a turn of the head, doing no work, break-
ing every rule, threatened with disgrace, plunged in despair;
emerging* the next moment new-bathed in radiance, oblivi-
ous of storm and stress.

Jennifer dispensing her hospitality with prodigal and care-
less ease, recklessly generous in public and in secret, flashing

DUSTY ANSWER

149

the glow of her magnetism suddenly into unlit and
neglected lives, allowing them to get warm for a little, and
then light-heartedly forgetting them. But never forgetting
Judith — or not for long; and coming b.^ck always to sit
with her alone, and drop all masks and love her silently,
watchfully with her eyes.

Jennifer singing Neapolitan folk-songs to a be-ribboned
guitar. Where she had picked up the airs, the language, the
grace and fascination of her manner, no one knew. But
when she sat by the window with bright streamers falling
over her lap, singing low to her soft accompaniment, then,
each time, everyone fell madly in love with her.

Jennifer chattering most when she was tired, or de-
pressed, her words tripping over each other, her absurd wit
sparkling, her laugh frequent and excited: so silent, so still
when she was happy that she seemed hypnotized, her
whole consciousness suspended to allow the happiness to
flow in.

Jennifer looking shattered, tortured after a few hours
spent by mistake over coachings and time-papers in stuffy
rooms; starting up in the end with a muttered: “O God,
this place! . • wrenching open the door and rushing
downstairs, oblivious of all but the urgency of her mood.
From the window you could see her in the grounds, running,
running. Soon the trees hid her. She was tramping over the
ploughed fields, her cheeks glowing, her hair like a light
against the dark hedges. She was going, alone, tensely, over
the long fields. What was she thinking of? She had her
evasions. No good to ask her: her eyes would fly off,
hiding from you. She would not let herself be known
entirely.

By Judith’s shadowy side ran the hurrying flame of
Jennifer; and from all that might give her pause, or cloud
her for a moment Jennifer fled as if she were afraid.

The lonely midnight clouded her. Jennifer was afraid
of the dark.

Was it that people had the day and the night in them,

DUSTY ANSWER

150

mixed in varying quantities? Jennifer had the strength of
day, and you the strength of night. By day, your little glow
was merged in her radiance ; but the night was stronger, and
overcame her. You were stronger than Jennifer in spite of
the burning life in her. The light hid the things for which
you searched, but the darkness and the silence revealed them.
All your significant experiences had been of the night.
And there, it was suddenly clear, was the secret of the bond
with Roddy. He too had more shadow in him than sun.
“ Chevalier de la lune ” that was he — “ Que la lumiere
importune” — ah! yes! <c Qui cherche le coin noir” — yes,
yes — “ Qui cherche le coin noir” Some time — it did not
matter when, for it was bound to happen — he would say in
the dark “ I love you.”

Meanwhile there was Jennifer to be loved with a bitter
maternal love, because she was afraid. And because, some
day, she might be gone. For Jennifer said “ I love you”
and fled away. You cried “ Come back! ” and she heard
and returned in anguish, clasping you close but dreading
your dependence. One day when you most needed her, she
might run away out of earshot, and never come back.

But there was value in impermanence, in insecurity; it
meant an ache and quickening, a perpetual birth; it meant
you could never drift into complacence and acceptance and
grow old.

There was Mabel, drifting into Judith’s life when con-
science pricked and being joyfully dismissed again when
the exigencies of duty seemed satisfied. There were little
notes from Mabel found, with a sinking feeling, among her
letters.

Dear J.,

Would you care to come to church with me on

Sunday? I shall be ready at 10.15. I do hope you will

come this week.

Yrs.

DUSTY ANSWER

151

Dear Judith,

I thought you did not look quite yourself at lunch to-
day. If there is anything worrying you, perhaps I might
help you? Or if you are tired, come and rest in my
armchair. I shall be working and will n* t disturb you.

Yours Mabel.

P.S. It’s all this rushing about that wt irs you out and
makes you unfit for work.

M.F.

Mabel wrote her advice now, more often than she dared
speak it.

Mabel, always pathetic, so that you could never entirely
disregard her; always grotesque and untouched by charm so
that it was impossible to think of her or look at her without
revulsion; so that the whole thing was a tedious and barren
self-discipline.

Mabel little by little relinquishing the effort to draw
Judith into her life and desperately endeavoring to fit her-
self into Judith’s: chattering to other girls, trying to be
amused by their jokes, to share their enthusiasms and illu-
sions; pretending to have a gay home-life, full of interest-
ing friends and fun; pretending to laugh at the thought of
work and to treat lightly that nightmare of the Tripos
which crushed her to the earth.

Once or twice Judith tried to draw her into the evening
circle, explaining her loneliness, appealing beforehand for
her pathos . . . But it was no good. She was of another
order of beings, — dreary and unadaptable. And Jennifer,
with a wicked light in her eye, spoke loudly and with
malicious irreverence of dons, the clergy and the Bible; and
mentioned the body with light-hearted frankness; and
Judith felt ashamed of herself for thinking Jennifer funny.

Mabel striving doggedly to believe that Jennifer was in
the nature of an illness from which Judith would recover by
careful treatment, then striving to ignore the importance of

152

DUSTY ANSWER

the relationship — staking out an exclusive claim in Judith
by references suggestive of a protective intimacy.

* Now, now! Pale cheeks! What will your mother say,
I’d like to know, if I let you go home looking like this? I
shall have to come and put you to bed myself/

And there followed the flush and the hungry gleam while
awkwardly she touched Judith’s cheek.

Mabel at long last voluntarily dropping out of all the
places into which she had tried to force herself, going back
without a word to her solitary room and her doughnuts.
There were no more little notes rearing unwelcome heads
in the letter-box. She asked nothing.

From the window late at night Judith could see her lamp
staring with a tense wan hopeless eye across the court. In the
midst of talk and laughter with Jennifer, she saw it sud-
denly and knew that Mabel was sitting alone, hunched over
note-books and dictionaries, breathing stertorously through
her nose hour after hour, dimly hoping that her uncurtained
window might attract Judith’s attention, persuade her to
look in and say good-night,

t Oh, Jennifer, I won’t be five minutes. I must just go
and see Mabel. It’s awful. You don’t know. She expects
me; and she’ll sit up all night working if I don’t go/

* Tell her about the young lady of Bute with my love and
a kiss,’ said Jennifer in the loud voice edged with brutality
which she reserved for Mabel. c And say the mistress is very
disappointed in her because she’s discovered she doesn’t
wear corsets. She’s going to speak about it publicly to-
morrow night because it’s very immoral. And ask her what
will her mother say if you let her go home with all those
spots on her face/

Judith escaped, laughing, ran down the dark stairs to
Mabel’s room and tapped.

* Come in/

It was clear from her voice she had been alert at the sound
of the known footsteps. She raised a pallid face that tried

DUSTY ANSWER 1 53

for a moment to begrudge its gladness and preserve a
stiffness.

‘ Now, Mabel, Fm come to put you tc bed. I like all
your talk of looking after me. It’s you who need it. What
do you suppose you’11 feel like to-morrow tf you work any
more? Come on now/

That was the way she loved to be talked to. Judith filled
her hot-water bottle and made cocoa, whilo with laborious
modesty she donned her flannel nightdress with its feather-
stitched collar; and pouted coyly and happily, like any other
girl, because Judith was such a dragon.

Then she leaned back in her chair with the work-lines in
her face smoothing out, and yawned contentedly and talked
of little intimate things, giving them to Judith without
reserve, as Judith gave hers to Jennifer — suddenly, pitifully
like any other girl.

These were her happy compensating moments: they made
her think for a while that the friendship was rare and firm.

How easy it was, thought Judith, to permit her to enjoy
your incongruous presence; to step right into her world and
close the gates on your own so fast that no chill air from it
might breathe against her security! Alone with her like this,
no lapse of taste on her part ruffled the nerves. You accepted
her and let her reveal herself; and she was, after all, in-
teresting, human, gentle, and simple. There was nothing —
this time you must remember — nothing grotesque or ridic-
ulous to report to Jennifer afterwards, hatefully betraying
and mocking. . . .

She spoke of her life in the narrow church-bound village
home; her future: she would teach, and so have her own lit-
tle independent place in the world. She didn’t think she was
the marrying sort; but you never knew. Independence was
what she craved: to support herself and be beholden to no
one. Only she must pass well: (and her eyes would wander
haggardly to the books) — It all depended on her health —
she’d never enjoyed very good health. She always thought if
she felt better she wouldn’t forget so. It made work very

DUSTY ANSWER

154

hard. Freda had always been the strong one. Everything
came easy to Freda. Everyone admired and petted her: she
was getting so spoilt, and extravagant too. She wouldn’t go
so far as to say she and Freda had much in common, but you
couldn’t help but love her in spite of all her naughtiness. And
the quick way she had of answering back! She recited some
of Freda’s quick answers, giggling like any other girl.

There was a curate who had coached her in Greek and
Latin. He was a wonderful man, a real saint: not like any
one else at all, young, a beautiful face and such eyes. Once
he had come to tea with her, and they had had a wonderful
talk, -just the two of them. Freda had been out. It really
seemed as if he looked on her as a friend. She hoped so.
• . . He had helped her.

Judith listened, asked questions, sympathized, cheered her
with offers of notes and essays; tucked her into bed with an
effort at motherliness; and flew with a light heart back to
Jennifer.

The curate ... at all costs, she must not tell Jennifer
about the curate.

7

The long days of May stretched out before Judith and
Jennifer. Each day was a fresh adventure in the open air,
and work an unimportant and neglected nuisance. For
weeks the weather remained flawless. Life narrowed to a
wandering in a green canoe up small river-channels far
from the town, with Jennifer paddling in wild bursts be-
tween long periods of inaction. To all Judith’s offers of
help she answered firmly that a woman should never depart
from her type.

They landed finally and made ready to bathe.

c Off y off, you lendings! ’ cried Jennifer. i Do you know,
darling, that comes home to me more than anything else in
all Shakespeare? I swear, Judith, it seems much more
natural to me to wear no clothes.’

She stood up, stretching white arms above her head. Her

DUSTY ANSWER 1 55

cloud of hair was vivid in the blue air. Her back was
slender and strong and faultlessly moulded

‘ Glorious, glorious Pagan that I adore ! 9 whispered the
voice in Judith that could never speak out.

Beside Jennifer she felt herself too si cn, too flexible,
almost attenuated.

c You are so utterly lovely/ Jennifer satV, watching her.

They swam in cool water in a deep cin ular pool swept
round with willows, and dried themselves in the sun.

They spent the afternoon in the shade of a blossoming
may bush. All round them the new green of the fields was
matted over with a rich and solid layer of buttercup yellow.
Jennifer lay flat on her back with the utter relaxed immo-
bility of an animal, replenishing her vitality through every
nerve.

Slowly they opened books, dreamed through a page, for-
got it at once, laid books aside ; turned to smile at each other,
to talk as if there could never be enough of talking; with
excitement, with anxiety, as if to-morrow might part them
and leave them for ever burdened with the weight of all
they had had to tell each other.

Judith crept closer, warming every sense at her, silent and
utterly peaceful. She was the part of you which you never
had been able to untie and set free, the part that wanted to
dance and run and sing, taking strong draughts of wind and
sunlight; and was, instead, done up in intricate knots and
overcast with shadows; the part that longed to look outward
and laugh, accepting life as an easy exciting thing; and yet
was checked by a voice that said doubtfully that there were
dark ideas behind it all, tangling the web; and turned you
inward to grope among the roots of thought and feeling for
the threads.

You could not do without Jennifer now.

The sun sank, and the level light flooded the fields and the
river. Now the landscape lost its bright pure definitions of
outline, its look as of a picture embroidered in brilliant silks,
and veiled its colours with a uniform pearl-like glow. A

DUSTY ANSWER

156

chill fell and the scent of May grew troubling in the still-
ness. They turned the canoe towards home.

Nearer the town, boats became more frequent. Gramo-
phones clamoured from the bowels of most of them; and
they were heavily charged with grey-flannelled youth. Jen-
nifer, observing them with frank interest, pointed out the
good-looking ones in a loud whisper; and all of them stared,
stared as they passed.

Above the quiet secretly-stirring town, roofs, towers and
spires floated in a pale gold wash of light. What was the
mystery of Cambridge in the evening? Footfalls struck with
a pa»g on the heart, faces startled with strange beauty, and
every far appearing or disappearing form seemed significant.

And when they got back to Cpllege, even that solid red-
brick barrack was touched with mystery. The corridors
were long patterns of unreal light and shadow. Girls’ voices
sounded remote as in a dream, with a murmuring rise and
fall and light laughter behind closed doors. The thrilling
smell of cowslips and wall-flowers was everywhere, like a
cloud of enchantment.

In Jennifer’s room, someone had let down the sun-blind,
and all was in throbbing shadow. Her great copper bowl
Was piled, as usual, with fruit, and they ate of it idly, with-
out hunger.

‘ Now a little work,’ said Judith firmly. c Think! only
three weeks till Mays. . . .’

But it was impossible to feel moved.

Jennifer, looking childish and despondent, sat down
silently by the window with a book.

Judith wrote on a sheet of paper:

Tall oaks branch-charmed by the earnest stars ; and
studied it. That was a starry night: the sound of the sylla«*
bles made stars prick out in dark treetops.

Under it she wrote :

. . . the foam
Of perilous seas in faery lands forlorn .

DUSTY ANSWER 1 57

What a lot there were for the sea and the seashore! . . .
The page became fuller.

Ufon the desolate verge of light
Yearned loud the iron-bosomed sea.

The unflumbed salt estranging sea .

From the lone shelling of the misty island
Mountains divide us and a world of seas:

But still the blood is strong , the heart is Highland ;
And we in dreams behold the Hebrides .

Ah, that said it all. . . .

The lines came flocking at random.

But the majestic river floated on y
Out of the mist and hum o f that low land
Into the frosty starlight , and there flowed
Rejoicing through the hushed Chorasmian waste
Under the solitary moon. . . .

Ah sunflower weary of time

That countest the step of the sun. . . .

Ah sunflower ! . . . Where were they — the old gar-
dens of the sun where my sunflower wished to go? They
half unfolded themselves at the words . . .

Nous n'irons flux aux bois
Les lauriers sont coufes .

O mors quam amara est memoria tua hormni facem
habenti in substantiis suis . . . .

How with one tongue those both cried alas!

And then in the end, sleep and a timeless peace.

Nox est ferfetua una dormienda ,

DUSTY ANSWER

158

There were so many tumbling and leaping about in your
head you could go on for ever. . . .

Now to study them. What did it all mean? Was there
any thread running through them with which to make a
theory? Anybody could write down strings of quotations, —
but a student of English literature was expected to deal in
theories. It was something to do with the sound . . . the
way sound made images, shell within shell of them softly
unclosing . . . the way words became colours and scents
. . . and the surprise when it happened, the ache of desire,
the surge of excitement, the sense of fulfilment, the momen-
tary perception of something unknowable. . . . Some sort
of truth, some answer to the question: What is poetry?

. . . No it was no good. But it had been very enjoyable,
writing things down like that and repeating them to yourself.

Jennifer was half asleep with her head upon the window-
sill. The bowl of fruit burned in the dimness. How like
Jennifer was her room! Yellow painted chairs, a red and
blue rug on the hearth, cowslips in coloured bowls and jars,
one branch of white lilac in a tall blue vase; the guitar with
its many ribbons lying on the table; a silken Italian shawl,
embroidered with great rose and blue and yellow flowers
flung over the screen: wherever you looked colour leapt up
at you; she threw colour about in profuse disorder and left
it. Her hat of pale green straw with its little wreath of
clover lay on the floor. Nobody else had attractive childish
hats like hers. A wide green straw would remind you of
Jennifer to the end of your life; and beneath it you would
see the full delicious curve of her cheek and chin, her deep-
shadowed eyes, her lips that seemed to hold all life in their
ardent lines.

She turned her head and smiled sleepily.

‘Hullo! * said Judith. ‘Haven’t we been quiet? I’ve
done such a lot of work/

‘ I’ve done none. I couldn’t remember the difference be-
tween ethics and aesthetics. What rot it all is! . . . Now
listen and we’ll hear a nightingale. He’s tuning up.’

DUSTY ANSWER

159

They leaned out of the window.

The icy aching flute in the cedar called ;<nd called on two
or three notes, uncertain, dissatisfied; then all at once found
itself and bubbled over in rich and complicated rapture.

Jennifer was listening, tranced in her strange immobility, as
if every other sense were suspended to allow ier to hear aright.

She roused herself at last as Judith bem to kiss her good
night.

c Good night my — darling — darling — ’ she said.

They stared at each other with tragic faces. It was too
much, this happiness and beauty.

The end of the first year.

8

The next moment so it seemed, the soft and coloured
Autumn days were there again; the corridors, the echoing
steps, the vast female yell of voices in Hall, the sense of
teeming life in all the little rooms, behind the little closed
doors — all these started again to weave their strange timeless
dream; and the second year had begun.

Midway through the term came Martin’s letter.

Dear Judith,

Roddy is in Cambridge for two nights, staying with
Tony. He wants to see you. Will you come to tea with
me to-morrow at 4.30? I am to tell you he will never
forgive you (a) if you don’t come (b) if you come with a
chaperon. He says that chance alone prevented him from
being your bachelor Uncle; and that I myself was a
maiden aunt from the cradle. So please come.

Martin.

Dear Martin,

Bachelor uncles are notorious; and curious things are
apt to happen to strictly maiden aunts as all we enlight-
ened moderns know. But an aunt and uncle bound by

l60 DUSTY ANSWER

holy matrimony are considered safe (as safety goes in this
world) and I have notified the authorities of their brief
presence in the university and am cordially permitted to
wait on them at tea to-morrow at 4.30.

Judith.

Judith looked around Martin’s room. It was untidy and
rather dirty, with something forlorn and pathetic and faintly
animal about it, like all masculine rooms. It made you want
to look after him. Men were helpless children; it was quite
true. You might have known Martin’s room would give
you a pdiculous pull at the heart.

c I’m afraid things are in a bit of a mess,’ said Martin,
blowing cigarette ash off the mantelpiece into the fire.

He was smoking an enormous pipe. His face was red.
His great form looked lumbering and shapeless in an ancient
tweed coat and a pair of voluminous grey flannel trousers.

c How are you, Judith? ’ His brown eye fixed itself on
her. He was very shy.
c I’ve been ill, Martin.’

I Oh! . . .’ He looked troubled and embarrassed. c Did
you — did you have a decent doctor? ’

‘ Oh yes. It was almost pneumonia, but not quite.’
f I didn’t know you’d been ill. . . .’

‘You haven’t been to see me for ages, Martin.’

€ I know. I’ve been so busy.’ Violently he blew the ash
about. What a shame to pretend to reproach him. He was
obviously overcome. . . . ‘ And I didn’t think you wanted.
. . . I suppose you’re all right again now? ’

Footsteps sounded outside on the stair. Judith collected
herself and sat rigid. The door opened and Roddy, smiling,
eager, debonair, came into the room.

‘ Hullo, Tudy! Marvellous to see you.’

‘ Roddy! ’

He stood before her and looked down into her face.

I I thought I was never going to see you again, Judy.
You’re looking marvellous.’

DUSTY ANSWER

161

He was going to be irresistible. Already something in
her was starting to leap up in response to hirn ; and watching
his face, she saw with a terrible pang that it was true, un-
arguable, proved over again more clearly than ever, that he
had some quality which separated him from everybody else
in the whole world, startled the imagination and made him
of appalling significance to her.

c Fm cold. Thank God for a good fire. It’s starting to
snow.’ He flung himself down on the hearth-rug. c Trust
Martin to make a good thick atmosphere with no beastly
fresh air about it. Tea! Tea! Tea! Let me make you
some toast, Judy. I make it so well/

While he toasted great hunks of bread, Martin buttered
scones and cut the cake, and Judith poured out tea.

They chattered, joked, teased each other. They played
absurd drawing and rhyming games. Judith made them
laugh with malicious stories of dons and students. Roddy
threw back his head, his whole face wrinkled and flattened
with silent laughter, his eyes gleaming with amusement
under their lids. Martin stared, laughed, Ha! Ha! — stared
again. They encouraged her, listened to her, were delighted
with her; and the old sense of abnormal self-assurance grew
within her taut mind.

At last she made herself look at the clock. So late!
There would barely be time to get back before Hall.

c Fve got a car outside/ said Roddy carelessly. 1 1 can
run you out in no time/

He added, interrupting her thanks:

< It isn’t mine, it’s got no hood, it always breaks down and
it’s hellishly uncomfortable, so I don’t advise it really/

It sounded as if he were suddenly regretting his offer,
trying to withdraw it. She looked at him, all her confidence
collapsing in a moment. His face had become a mask.

She said swiftly:

* If you would take me I should be very grateful/ Her
voice sounded to herself strained, beseeching, horrible.

He bowed.

1 62

DUSTY ANSWER

It took ten minutes to get the car started, with Martin
and Roddy madly swinging her by turns.

c Good night, Martin. Thank you for my lovely tea
party. I’ll see you again soon, won’t I? ’

He nodded, looking gravely down at her in the lamp-light.

c Don’t catch cold,’ he said. There was something de-
jected about his attitude, a flatness in his voice. . . . Things
had gone wrong for him. . . . Ever since that panic-
stricken voice had broken in on the laughter and talk, the
game for three, with its vibrating cry: “If you would take
me home . . .” from that moment all had been faintly
blown upon by a ruffle of uneasy wind. They were no
longer Ihree persons, but two men and one woman.

She knew it and loathed herself because Martin knew it too.

c I’m due to dine with Tony ih twenty minutes,’ said
Roddy. . . . ‘ t You’d better come along too. I’ll call for
you on my way back. I shan’t be long.’

Roddy’s voice had forced a note of carelessness ... as
if he were trying to pretend to Martin that nothing had
happened; that the female had not suddenly singled him out
and stretched an inviting hand to him as he stood beside his
friend.

Even Roddy was aware of it.

c No,* said Martin, 1 I won’t dine with Tony. I’ll see
you to-morrow perhaps.’

He waved his hand and turned away. The car started.
She was alone with a strange man.

The night was dark, with a piercing wind and a faint
flurry of snow in the air. Roddy drove at a great pace, and
she sat beside him in silence, her shoulder touching his.

1 Cold? ’ he said suddenly.

* No, I don’t feel — anything.’

All of life was concentrated in her dark beating mind:
her body Was insensible to the weather. She saw the gates
of College fly past. Its lights gleamed and were gone; and
she could not speak. On they went, the long straight empty
road flung before them in small lengths by the headlights

DUSTY ANSWER 1 63

and rolled up into nothingness behind them, cast away for
ever.

He stopped the car suddenly.

4 Where’s this place ? ’

4 I think we’ve passed it long ago.’

The wind took her small voice away from him. He
leaned towards her.

4 What? ’

She turned to him.

* I think- we’ve passed it long ago.*

4 I think we have/

Silence. The great wind blowing through illimitable
deeps of night lifted and whirled her beyond time and space.
She saw his hand lying on the wheel — a pale blur; and her
own crept out and lay beside it; and she stared at them both.
He watched her hand fall beside his and did not move a
hair’s breadth nearer to touch it. He and she were alone to-
gether. No need for speech or movement. Their hands
would lie motionless, side by side, for ever and ever.

She heard him laugh softly; and as he laughed her hand
came quickly to her lap.

4 Well, what d’you want to do? ’ he said very low.

4 1 don’t want to go back.’

4 Do you want to go on? ’

4 Yes.’

The car went forward again. Once she leaned towards
him and said in his ear:

4 Roddy! ’

4 Yes? ’

4 You didn’t want to go back, did you? 9
4 No.’ (

She lay back again, mindlessly at peace in the midst of
the roaring of the wind, and the road’s monotonous un-
folding.

Once he burst out laughing, patted her knee and cried:

4 Aren't we mad? 9

His voice rang boyishly, happily.

DUSTY ANSWER

164

Now came the snow, thinly at first, but soon in wild
drifting clouds, blotting out the road, settling thick and
fast over all, sifting and piling on the wind-screen.

‘ Oh Lord, we must turn/ said Roddy. ‘ This is frightful. 5

He turned the car and then stopped her to light a cigarette.
She saw his face, lit by the flare of the match, glow suddenly,
warmly out of the darkness with unknown curves and
strange planes of light and shadow, and narrowed eyes,
eyes not human, never-to-be-forgotten.

He waved the dwindling flame in her face.

‘Solemn face! What are you staring at? Smile — quick,
quick, before the match goes out! 5

Th^ match went out.

‘ I am smiling, Roddy. 5

‘That’s right. Poor Judy covered with snow! There
you sit, so modest and unassuming. Shall I get you home
alive? 9

i I don’t care/

She slipped her arm through his, and he gave it a quick
friendly pressure and drove on.

Now they were before the gates of College. After all
they had not driven very far. Time started again with a
reluctant painful beat as the car crept in under the archway;
and she realized that it was little more than an hour
since they had left Martin. It seemed so short now — less
than a moment; a pause between a breath and another
breath.

They sat side by side in the car without moving.

‘ I suppose I must go in now/ she said at last. c They’ll
still be at Hall/

He shivered and beat his hands together. She took one
and felt it, and it was icy.

‘ Your hands. Oh, Roddy! Will you come in and get
warm by toy fire? 5

He seemed to be considering and then said in a stilted
way:

DUSTY ANSWER l6$

4 If I may — just for a minute — I’ve got rather chilled
driving without gloves/

She could find nothing to say. A cold shy politeness
had descended on them both. She led the way into the
hall and up the stairs. At every step snow fell off them:
their shoulders and arms were covered in it. The corridors
were silent and deserted, echoing only her light footsteps,
and his heavier ones. She heard her tread, and his following
after it, marching, marching towards her far-off door.
Judith was bringing Roddy, Judith was in sober truth
bringing Roddy to her room. If anyone saw her there
would be trouble.

Somebody — Jennifer perhaps — must have drawn the
curtains and heaped the fire in the little room. The warmth
drew out the smell of the chrysanthemums; and their
heavy golden heads, massed in a blue jar, held mysterious
intensity of life in the firelight. She switched on the read-
ing lamp, and all the colours in the room leapt up dimly,
secretly: purple, blue and rose-colour glowed around them,
half-lit, half obscured.

4 This is rather seductive/ he said. He sank on his knees
by the fire and held out his hands to the blaze, looking
about him with a faint smile. She came and knelt beside
him; and his eyes fastened narrowly on her face.

* It’s like you: seductive/ he said softly.

6 Oh, Roddy! Seductive. That’s all it is. I see it now.
I hate it. Am 1 nothing more than that? ’

6 You. ... I don’t know what you are. I can’t make
you out. You never behave as I think you probably
will/

4 I’m glad of that/

4 Why are you glad ? ’

4 Because I believe you ascribe to me the worst motives, —
the most ambiguous. You suspect me — you guard yourself
against me/

4 1 don’t, Judy/

DUSTY ANSWER

1 66

* Ah, you do. But you needn’t. I won’t do you any
harm. Unless being — very fond of you can do you harm.
But I don’t think I’m a femme fatale .’

4 I don’t know what you are. You disturb me very much.
You seem to me completely incalculable. Your eyes watch
me and watch me. Such marvellous eyes.’

She lifted them to his in a long steady look and remained
silent.

4 You’re very nice,’ he said. 4 Rather a dear. I believe
you’re quite without guile really. Why do you trust people
so? It’s very foolish of you.’

4 Is it foolish of me to trust you? ’

4 Irfcredibly foolish.’ He added, raising his voice and
speaking slowly: 4 It’s no good trying to make me —
adequate.’

4 Ah, you like to destroy yourself to me.’

4 But don’t you see? I go through the days in a sort of
apathy; blind and deaf; blinder and deafer every day. I
never think, I never care. I’d much better be dead only, —
I’m too lazy to shoot myself.’

4 Oh, Roddy, don’t.’

She covered her ears with her hands. He had never spoken
at such length, or with such obvious intent to convince.

4 I’m only trying to warn you,’ he said, rather defiantly,
4 I’m not worth saving. Nobody must ever take me seri-
ously. I’m not worth wasting a moment over. Nobody can
do anything with me.’

His mood was verging towards laughter. His face broke
up teasingly as he finished speaking and turned to look at
her. But she averted her face, drearily pondering.

Why had he spoken like that? A self-contempt so settled,
so hopeless. . . . He had seemed to be warning her to
keep away from him for her own sake.

4 It’s ilo good,’ she said suddenly, involuntarily.

4 What’s no good? ’

4 You’re what I choose to think you are. There’s no
point in heaping yourself with abuse. You can’t make me

DUSTY ANSWER 1 67

dislike you; you can only make me sad. But I suppose that
gives you pleasure

He was silent. She went on tremulously

‘ And when you — when people say thev don’t feel or
care — that they’re no good — it only mak is me think — I
could show them how to feel and care. I c mid make them
happy. I could look after them. I dare say you know that’s
— the effect it has on me. That’s why you s iy it.’

He was still silent. She leaned her head forward against
the wall and felt tears smart under her lids.

He seemed to be musing, his eyes fixed on the fire, his
hands held out to it.

‘ Are your hands still cold? ’ she said wearily. * Get
them warm before you go.’

Suddenly he held them out to her.

It was a gesture so impulsive, so uncharacteristic it seemed
of startling significance; and she could not answer it.

‘Yes, they are cold,’ he said. ‘Let me feel yours.
Yours are cold too. What funny hands — so thin and nar-
row, such delicate bones. Rather lovely.’ He clasped them
hard in his own. ‘ When I do that they seem to go to
nothing.’

She smiled at him dimly, half-tranced, feeling her eyelids
droop over her eyes, giving him, with her helpless hands, all
of herself; as if, through her finger-tips, he drew her in to
himself in a dark stemlessly flowing tide. He stroked her
palms, her whole hand, over and over with a lingering care-
ful touch, as if learning the outline by heart.

‘ They feel so kind,’ he said musingly. ‘ They are,
aren’t they, Judy? Dear little kind things — like the rest of
you. Are you always kind, Judy? ’

‘ Always to you, Roddy, I shouldn’t wonder.’

He relinquished his clasp suddenly, saying with a shake of
the head:

‘You shouldn’t be. . . . However, I’ve warned you.’

‘ Yes, you’ve warned me.’

She smiled at him sadly.

1 68

DUSTY ANSWER

In a minute she must tell him to go. They would be
coming out of the Hall, bursting into the room to discover
the cause of her absence.

1 Are you tired? ’ he said.

She nodded, realizing suddenly the collapsed forward
droop of her body, the whole pose of deadly fatigue.

/ I’ve been very ill, you know/

1 Oh, Judy! You never told me. You let me take you
for that bloody cold drive. You’ll be ill again/

‘ It’s all right. I shan’t be ill again/
c You are naughty,’ he said, looking at her anxiously.
He never could bear people to be ill or in pain.
c (Jome and lie down at once on the sofa/ he said.

She obeyed him, and let him arrange the cushions beneath
her shoulders, with a delicious sense of dependence.

c The drive won’t have hurt me/ she said, L because I
enjoyed it so much/

He stood looking down at her.

I Did you enjoy it? ’ he said softly.

€ Yes, didn’t you? 9

‘ Yes * >

c Wasn’t it a queer unreal drive? ’
c Quite unreal, I suppose/
c I wish it had never stopped/

He made no answer to this but still stood watching her.

* You’ll have to go, Roddy. They mustn’t find you. Be-
sides you’ll be missing your dinner/

‘ I’ve missed that long ago, I should think/

* Oh, Roddy, how awful! I’ve made you miss your
dinner/

I I know. It’s monstrous of you. And I’m so hungry/
c I’ve missed mine too but I’m not hungry. . . . Roddy,

what will Tony say to you? ’
c He’ll be very much annoyed/

: Shall you say you were with me? He wouldn’t like that,
would he? ’

‘ No/

DUSTY ANSWER

169

‘ Tony is jealous of me. Once he looked .it me with pure
hatred. I’ve never forgotten it. Does he love you? ’

‘ I think he does.’

‘I think he does too. Do you love him? You needn’t
answer. I know I mustn’t ask you that.’

c You can ask me anything you like.’

But he did not answer.

‘ It is so terrible to be hated. Tell him I won’t do you
any harm.’

But perhaps that was not true. Perhaps she meant endless
mischief. Supposing she were to take Roddy from Tony,
from all his friends and lovers, from all his idle Parisian and
English life, and attach him to herself, tie him and possess
him: that would mean giving him cares, responsibilities:
it might mean changing him from his free and secret self
into something ordinary, domesticated, resentful. Perhaps
his lovers and friends would be well advised to gather round
him jealously and guard him from the female. She saw her-
self for one moment as a creature of evil design, dangerous
to him, and took her hand away from his that held it lightly.

c I’ll tell him you won’t do me any harm,’ he repeated
absently. He was staring into her face.

€ You’re going away now,’ she said, ‘ and I don’t know
when I shall see you again.’

‘ I don’t know either,’ he said smiling.

‘ To-morrow you’ll have forgotten. But I shan’t forget
this evening.’

€ Nor shall I. I don’t forget you, Judy. I sometimes
wish I could. I’m a little afraid of you.’

c Afraid of me? ’

‘ Afraid of you — and me.’

Later on when he was gone she must make herself think
of that. It might have power to hurt: she could not tell now,
with his unmasked, disturbed face watching her. Now there
was nothing but depth under depth of welling happiness.

c You know, Roddy,’ she said after a silence, ‘the awful
thing about you is that I can never pick up again where we

DUSTY ANSWER

170

left off. To-night you’ve talked to me as I’ve always longed
fot you to talk to me, as if we could trust each other, as if
we were two creatures of the same sort alone together. Don’t
you feel we know each other better after to-night, Roddy? *
He was silent for a moment, his eyes twinkling; then he
said:

‘ I feel you’ve made me say a great many indiscreet things.*
‘Poor Roddy! You’d better go, before I wring some-
thing out of you you’ll regret to your life’s end,’ she said
bitterly. ‘ You know I shan’t rest until I’ve forced you to
tell me all your secrets. And when you have, I’ll go and
tell t$[em to everybody else.’

She shut her eyes and turned her face from him. There
was a long silence. ,

‘ Don’t he cross with me,’ he said in the end.

‘ I’m not.’

‘ Didn’t I tell you I was inadequate? ’

‘ Yes, you told me.’

‘ Well now you believe it don’t you? ’

‘No. No. No.’

‘ Ah — you’re incorrigible. . . . Good-bye, Judy.’

She turned towards him again, took his hand in both hers
and clung to it.

c Roddy, you have — quite liked — being with toe . . .
haven’t you? ’

His face softened.

‘ I’ve adored it,’ he said gently.

‘ And when shall I see you again? ’

He shook his head.

‘Oh, Roddy, when? ’

He stooped swiftly until his face almost touched hers, and
murmured, watching her:

‘ Whenever you like.’

His lips closed on hers very lightly. She put her arms
round his neck and kissed his cheek and forehead. When
after a moment or two he raised himself she thought he
was smiling again.

DUSTY ANSWER

171

She lay perfectly still, watching him while he lit a cigarette,
smoothed his hair, put on his coat and went to open the door.
Then he turned, still smiling, and nodding as if encouraging
her to smile hack. But she continued to lit and stare up at
him as if from the bottom of a well; as if all of her were
dead except the eyes which just moved, following him.

The door closed after him. Soon the sound of his foot-
steps faded along the corridor.

She raised her hand slowly and with d.fficulty, as if a
weight were holding it to her side, and pulled the lamp’s
green shade down; and the whole room sank softly into
semi-obscurity.

Some trick of green light brought suddenly to mind the
look of early spring woods at twilight: fresh buds and little
leaves dashed with rain, an air like dark clear water lighting
the branches with a wan glimmer.

She looked at her body lying long, slender and still on the
couch; she saw her breast rise and fall faintly with her
breathing; and she had a sense of watching herself return
from a long swoon, bathed in crystalline new life, trans-
formed and beautified.

The trivial femininities of the room had made, she
thought, an inept background for his elegance. But now
there seemed something graceful, foreign, curious in the
lights and shades, in the forms of flowers, books, furniture;
as if he had left his impress upon them.

She heard the footsteps of Jennifer coming swiftly to-
wards her door. , . . Not a word, not a whisper to Jenni-
fer. She and he could never meet, even in mind. The
profoundest instinct forbade it.

Jennifer came gaily in.

* Tired, darling? * she said. * You were quite right not to
come to Hall. It was bloodier than ever. Come, darling,
let me put you to bed — you’re so tired. I’ll look after you.
I’ll make you some scrambled eggs after you’re in bed.’

Then Jennifer suspected nothing. She did not see that
all was changed. She was deep in the mood of tender solid-

DUSTY ANSWER

172

tude which came upon her now and then since the illness,
when she remembered to think Judith fragile. She lifted
her in her arms, and carried her into the bedroom. . . .

Nothing has changed after all. There was Jennifer
laughing, talking, letting the eggs get burnt while she did
her hair; bending down finally to kiss you a tender good-
night. Judith tried to think of Roddy. A little while ago he
had been stooping over her as Jennifer stooped now, with
eyes that were different and yet the same. But he had dis-
appeared; she could not now remember what he looked like.

Nothing was altered then, no order was reversed or even
shaken. There were these moments; but all around and
about the extravagant incongruous brilliances, the divine
crudities, the breath-taking magnificences of their pattern,
life went on weaving uninterruptedly : weaving uncoloured
trivial things into secure fabric.

9

Then, almost it seemed, while she still told herself these
things; while the memory of Roddy’s brief presence still
surged up bewilderingly to drown her a hundred times a day,
and then slipped away again, lost in the mysterious and
doubtful darkness cast by his ensuing silence; while Jenni-
fer remained the unquenched spring of all gaiety and re-
assurance, all delight: while the whole ordered dream went
on as if it could never break; even then, with the third
year, the shadow of change began to fall.

It was a look, a turn of the head, a new trick of speech,
a nothing in Jennifer which struck at her heart in a mo-
ment; and then all had started to fall to pieces. Jennifer
was no longer the same. Somewhere she had turned aside
without a word, and set her face to a new road. She did not
want to be followed. She had given Judith the slip, in the
dark; and now, when she still pretended to be there, her
voice had the false shrillness of a voice coming from for
away* v t

DUSTY ANSWER

173

She remembered Jennifer saying once, suddenly:
“ There’s one thing certain in my life: that is, that I shall
always love you.” And afterwards her ey< s had shone as if
with tears and laughter. She remembered the surprise and
joy, the flooding confidence of that moment ; for it had been
said so quietly, as if the realization of that “ always ” held
for something sorrowful, a sobering sens< of fate. Her
manner had had a simplicity far removed from the usual
effervescence and extravagance: she had seemed to state a
fact to be believed in forever, without question. In her life
where all else was uncertain, fluid and undirected, where all
turned in mazes of heat and sound, that only was the deep
unshaken foundation, the changeless thing. . . . She had
seemed to mean that, sitting back in her chair, her arms laid
along her lap, her hands folded together, everything about
her quiet and tender, her eyes resting on Judith as they never
had before or since, long and full, with a depth of un-
troubled love.

That had been on a day in late April, at the beginning of
the last Summer term. The happiness of reunion had never
before seemed so complete. She had been in Scotland,
Judith in Paris with Mamma, living resentfully in a re-
flection of Mamma’s alien existence. And then they were
together again, and the summer term had opened with its
unfailing week or so of exquisite weather.

They had taken the green canoe one morning and wan-
dered up the river to Grandchester. There was no one
at all in the Orchard when they reached it.

u Thank God I see no grey flannels,” said Jennifer. “ I
suppose the grass is still too wet for undergraduates to sit
out.”

A light breeze was blowing through the orchard, ruffling
long grass, dandelions, buttercups, and daisies. Under the
trees, the little white tables, set in the green silken brilliance,
were dappled with running light and shadow, and the apple
branches, clotted with full blossom, gleamed against the
sky in a tender childish contrast of simple colours, — pale

DUSTY ANSWER

174

pink upon pale blue. The air was dazed with a bewilder-
ment of bird-song.

A rough brown terrier with golden eyes came prancing
out on them, making known their presence with barkings
half-ferocious, half-friendly. The dark waitress came laz-
ily from the house, reluctant to serve them.
c Is the Orchard open ? 3
c Oh yes, it’s open/

* Can you let us have lunch ? 3
1 Oh I dare say/

1 What can you let us have ? 3

c you can have a cheese omelette and some fruit-salad/
4 Divine , 3 said Jennifer, and leapt for joy.
c You better have it in the shelter. The grass is wet/
She wandered away, smoothing her black untidy hair.
She would not smile. There was something arresting and
romantic in the thin sallow dark-browed young woman,
preserving her ugliness, her faint unrelaxing bitterness
among all the laughing renewals of her surroundings.

< I’d like to pick her up and shake her into life. Make
her smile and be young. Make her cheeks pink and her
eyes bright , 3 said Jennifer. 6 If I were a man I’d fall
bang in love with her. What is her name do you think?
Jessica? Anne? Rosa? 3
c Miriam/
i Yes, Miriam/

How the remembered insignificant words brought flood-
ing back the irrecoverable quality of that day!

Tits and robins, perching all around them, and the
golden-eyed dog, had helped them to finish their meal.

Then they had lain back in their chairs, staring and saying
nothing. And then it was that Jennifer had turned and
broken, the silence with her quiet, inevitable-seeming declara-
tion; and after it Judith had reached out to touch her hand
for a moment; and continued to sit beside her and dream.

Later in the afternoon they had seen grey-flannelled legs
approaching and risen to go.

DUSTY ANSWER 1 75

They met the dark girl walking down the gravel path
towards the orchard, carrying a trayful of crockery.

c We’ve come to pay you,’ said Jennifer radiantly smiling.

She gave the price without a flicker.

c Judith, have you that much on you, darling? ’ said
Jennifer, and added, turning again to the girl: 4 We have
so enjoyed ourselves.’

There was no response save a quick suspi. ious glance.

Currant bushes, wallflowers, narcissi, pansies, yellow;
daisies and tulips blossomed richly on each side of the path.

c What a delicious garden! ’ said Jennifer. ‘It’s at its
very best, isn’t it? ’

‘ It’s looking nice,’ she admitted.

Jennifer pointed to a clump of stiff, serious purple-black
tulips.

1 Those tulips are like you,’ she said, her eyes and mouth,
all her glowing face, coaxing and appealing.

And suddenly the girl gave a little laugh, looking with
soft eyes first at Jennifer, then away, shyly and deprecat-
ingly, as who should say: * The idea! Me like a tulip!
Well, you are a one — Daft . . .’ but gratified and amused
all the same.

c I shall always think of you when I see tulips like that,’
said Jennifer. € Good-bye!’

c Good-bye, Miss. . . .’ She smiled, almost mischie-
vously this time, and hurried on with her tray.

c She was quite human,’ said Jennifer. ‘ I wonder if
she’s got a lover or if she’s longing for one, or if she’s been
jilted, or what. . . . What makes her all shadowy and
tight inside herself? ’

She stood looking after the girl, as if meditating going
back to ask her.

How Jennifer struck sparks from ordinary people! She
knew how to live. To be with her was to meet adventure;
to see, round every corner, the bush become the burning bush.

In a little while she would have forgotten the girl whose
problem was now so urgent and exciting; but you yourself

DUSTY ANSWER

176

would always remember, — seeing it all dramatically, see-
ing it as a quiet story, hearing it as an unknown tune : mak-
ing of it a water colour painting in gay foolish colours, or
an intricate pencil pattern of light and shadow.

They left the Orchard.

c I think/ said Jennifer , c we will never come here again.*

' They had not come again. That time had remained
unblurred by any subsequent return in a different mood,
with more companions, in another weather or season.

But Judith had thought, while she nodded agreement:
€ Some day, when I’m much older, I’ll come back alone
and think of her; and then perhaps write and say: do you
remember? Or perhaps not, in case she has forgotten/

And now, it seemed, far sooner even than Judith had
feared, Jennifer was forgetting everything. They had
meant to go away together during the summer vacation; go
to Brittany, and bathe and walk and read: but in the end
Jennifer’s don had said cold things regarding Jennifer’s
progress, and requested her to attend college during the Long.
Judith had gone on a reading party with three of the circle,
and written Jennifer long letters which were answered
briefly and at rare intervals. But that was not surprising.
Jennifer’s letters had always been spasmodic, if passionately
affectionate. Then the letters had ceased altogether. Ju-
dith had written asking if they could not spend September
together, and Jennifer had answered in five lines, excusing
herself. She was going to shoot in Scotland in September.

And then the third year had started, with everything as
it had always been, or seeming so, for a few moments; and
then in one more moment shivered to pieces.

She would not stay behind alone, after the others had
gone, to say good-night. She ceased to talk with abandon-
ment and excitement, her eyes shining to see you listening, to
feel you understanding. There seemed nothing to say now.
In particular, she would not speak of the Long.

It was, of course, Mabel who was the first to hint of ill-

BUSTY ANSWER 1 77

tidings. Eating doughnuts out of a bag, late one night,
during one of Judith’s charity visits, she sa d:

‘ Has that Miss Manners been up lately 5 ’

c Who’s Miss Manners? ’

‘ Why — that Miss Manners, Jennifers friend, who
stayed with her so much during the Long.’

‘ Oh yes ’

c I was sure you must have heard about her, because they
seemed such very great friends. They were always about
together and always up to some lark.’ She gave a snigger.
c We used to wonder, we really did, how long it would be
before Jennifer got sent down, the way they used to go on,
coming in so late and all. But somehow Jennifer never
gets found out, does she? 5 Another snigger. c What a
striking-looking girl she is.’

‘Who? ’

‘ Miss Manners.’

‘ Oh yes. . . . I’ve never seen her. Only photo-
graphs.’

‘ Everybody said what a striking pair they made. . . .
I expect she’ll be up soon again, don’t you? ’

‘ I don’t know at all,’ said Judith. ‘ I expect so.’ Mabel
looked solemn.

‘ The wrestling matches they used to have out there on
the lawn! I used to watch them from my window. I
wonder they didn’t ... I really wonder . . . any of
the don ... It looked so . . . throwing each other
about like that. . . . It’s not the sort of thing you expect
— quite, is it? I mean . . /

‘ Oh, wrestling’s glorious/ said Judith. * I love it.
Jennifer’s tried to teach me. But I’m not strong enough
for her; the — the — Manners girl is much more of a match
for her.’

Mabel pursed up her mouth and was silent.

It was necessary to leave her quickly for fear of striking
her; because her deliberate intent was obvious; because she
knew quite well now that you had never before heard of

DUSTY ANSWER

178

Miss Manners; because you were seeing that girl plainly,
tall, dark and splendid, striding on the lawn with Jennifer,
grasping her in strong arms, a match for her in all magnif-
icent un feminine physical ways, as you had never been.
Her image was all at once there, ineflfaceably presenting it-
self as the embodiment of all hitherto unco-ordinated and
formless fears, the symbol for change, and dark alarms and
confusions. And the unbearable image of Mabel was there
too, watching by herself, gloating down from the window
with glistening eyes that said:

4 At last! *

She stopped short in the corridor, and moaned aloud,
aghast at the crowding panic of her thoughts.

Judith, returning from her bath, heard voices and laughter
late at night behind Jennifer’s door. Should she stop? All
the circle must be there as usual, laughing and talking as if
nothing were amiss. She alone had excluded herself, sitting
with a pile of books in her room, pretending to have impor-
tant work. It was her own fault. She had said she was
busy, and they had believed her and not invited her to join
their gathering. She would go in, and sit among them and
smoke, and tell them things, — tell them something to make
them laugh; and all would be as before. They would drift
away in the end and leave her behind; she would turn and
look at Jennifer in the firelight, put out a hand and say:
4 Jennifer. . .

She opened the door and looked in.

The voices stopped, cut off sharply.

In the strange, charged, ensuing silence, she saw that the
curtains were flung back. Purple-black night pressed up
against the windows, and one pane framed the blank white
globe of the full moon. They were all lying on the floor.
Dark forms, pallid, moon-touched faces and hands were
dimly distinguishable; a few cigarette points burned in the
faint hanging cloud of smoke across the room. The fire
was almost out. Where was Jennifer?

DUSTY ANSWER

179

c Hullo, there’s Judith,’ said one.

* Is there room for me? ’ said Judith in a small voice.
She came in softly among them all, and w t at directly over
to the window and sat on the floor, with the moon behind
her head. She was conscious of her own unnatural preci-
sion and economy of movement; of her long slender body
wrapped in its kimono crossing the room in rnree light steps,
sinking noiselessly down in its place and at once remaining
motionless, expectant.

Where was Jennifer?

c All in the dark,’ she said, in the same soft voice. And
then : c What a moon! Don’t you know it’s very dangerous
to let it shine on you like this? It will make you mad.’

One or two of them laughed. She could now recognize
the three faces in front of her. Jennifer must be some-
where by the fireplace. There was constraint in the room.
She thought with awful jealousy: ‘ Ah, they hate my com-
ing. They thought they were getting rid of me at last.
They come here secretly without me, to insinuate them-
selves. They all want her. They have all hated me al-
ways.’ She said :

c Give me a cigarette, someone.’

Jennifer’s voice broke in suddenly with a sort of harsh
clangour. From her voice, Judith knew how wild her eyes
must be.

‘ Here, here’s a cigarette, Judith. . . , Have something
to eat. Or some cocoa. Oh — there was a bottle of cherry-
brandy, but I believe we’ve finished it.’

Horrible confusion in her voice, a stumbling hurry of
noise. . . .

c I have just licked up the last dregs,’ said a deep voice.

1 Who’s that who spoke then? ’ said Judith softly and
sweetly.

c Oh . . .’ cried Jennifer shrilly, ‘ Geraldine, you
haven’t met Judith yet.’

What was she saying? Geraldine Manners was staying
the week-end, no, was wrestling on the lawn with her; had

DUSTY ANSWER

180

just arrived, no, had been in the room for months, since the
summer, for they were such very great friends. . . .

‘ How do you do. I’m guessing what you are like from
the way you speak,’ said Judith softly, laughingly.

* Oh, I’m no good at that.’

How bored, how careless a voice!

‘.Shall I switch on the light? ’ said someone.

‘ No! ’ said Judith loudly.

She lifted up her arm against the window. The kimono
sleeve fell back from it, and it gleamed cold and frail in
the moonlight, like a snake. She spread out her long fingers
and stared at them.

‘ I would like to be blind,’ she said. ‘ I really wish I
were blind. Then I might learn to see with my fingers. I
might learn to hear properly too.’

And learn to be indifferent to Jennifer; never to be en-
slaved again by the lines and colours of her physical appear-*
ance, the ever new surprise and delight of them; learn, in
calm perpetual darkness, how the eyes’ tyrannical compul-
sions had obscured and distorted all true values. To be
struck blind now this moment, so that the dreadful face of
the voice by the fireplace remained for ever unknown!
. . . Soon the light would go on, and painfully, hungrily,
with awful haste and reluctance, the eyes would begin their
work again, fly to their target.

‘Don’t be absurd, Judith,’ said someone. ‘You don’t
know what you’re talking about ’; and went on to talk of
work among the blind, of blinded soldiers, of St. Dunstan’s.

The conversation became general and followed the usual
lines: it was better to be deaf than blind, blind than deaf.
Jennifer and Geraldine were silent.

‘ Oh, it’s time we went to bed,’ said someone. ‘ Jenni-
fer, I must go to bed. I’m almost asleep. What’s the
time? ’

Now the light would go on.

It went on. The room suddenly revealed its confusion
of girls, cushions, chairs, cups, plates and cigarette-ends.

BUSTY ANSWER

181

Everybody was getting up, standing about and talking.

Jennifer was on her feet, voluble, calling loud good-
nights. They made a group round her ^nd round some-
body still sitting on the floor beside her. Judith caught a
glimpse of a dark head leaning motionless against the man-
telpiece. Now they were all going away. Judith followed
them slowly to the door and there paused, looking over her
shoulder towards the fireplace.

‘Stay/ said Jennifer shrilly. She was standing and star-
ing at Judith with wild eyes; pale, with a deep patch of
colour in each cheek, and lips parted.

4 No, I must go. I’ve got some work/ said Judith,
smiling over her shoulder. She let her eyes drop from
Jennifer’s face to the other one.

At last it confronted her, the silent-looking face, watch-
ing behind its narrowed eyes. The hair was black, short,
brushed straight back from the forehead, leaving small
beautiful ears exposed. The heavy eyebrows came low and
level on the low broad brow; the eyes were long slits, dark-
circled, the cheeks were pale, the jaw heavy and masculine.
All the meaning of the face was concentrated in the mouth,
the strange wide lips laid rather flat on the face, sulky, pas-
sionate, weary, eager. She was not a young girl. It was the
face of a woman of thirty or more; but in years she might
have been younger. She was tall, deep-breasted, with long,
heavy but shapely limbs. She wore a black frock and a pearl
necklace, and large pearl earrings.

Judith said politely:

4 Is this the first time you have been here? 5

4 No.’ She laughed. Her voice was an insolent voice.

4 I’m tired,’ said Jennifer suddenly, like a child,

4 You look it,’ said Judith. 4 Go to bed.’

4 I’ll get undressed.’ Jennifer passed a hand across her
forehead and sighed.

The woman by the fireplace fitted a cigarette into an am-
ber holder slowly, and lit it.

DUSTY ANSWER

l82

i I’m not sleepy yet/ she said . i I’ll wait till you’re in bed
and come and tuck you up.’

‘ This room feels ’ cried Jennifer staring around her

in horror. She dashed to the window and flung it wide
open; then disappeared into her bedroom; and there was not
another sound from her.

The woman started singing to herself very low, as if
forgetful of Judith’s presence; then broke off to say:

‘ I like your kimono.’

Judith wrapped the long red and blue silk garment more
closely round her hips.

‘ Yes. * It was brought me from Japan. I gave Jennifer
one. A purple one.’

‘ Oh, that one. She’s lent it to m?. I forgot to bring a
dressing-gown.’

She turned her head away, as if to intimate that so far as
she was concerned conversation was neither interesting nor
necessary.

Judith bit back the c Good-night, Jennifer ’ which she was
about to call; for she was never going to care any more
what happened to Jennifer; never again soothe her when
she was weary and excited, comfort her when she was un-
happy. She would look at Jennifer coldly, observe her va-
garies and entanglements with a shrug, comment upon them
with detached and cynical amusement: hurt her, if possible,
oh, hurt her, hurt her.

Now she would leave her with Geraldine and not trouble
to ask herself once what profound and secret intimacies
would be restored by her withdrawal.

She smiled over her shoulder and left the room.

10

A week later, Geraldine was still there. She and Judith
had not met again; when she and Jennifer, arm in arm,
were seen approaching, Judith avoided them; and changing
her place at Hall — her place which had been beside Jennifer

DUSTY ANSWER

183

for two years — went and sat where she could not see the sleek
dark head next to the fair one, turning and nodding in re-
sponse.

All day they were invisible. Geraldiivj had a car, and
they must go miles and miles into the cc untry in the soft
late autumn weather.

It seemed to Judith that life had ceased to bear her along
upon its tide. It flowed past her, away fiom her; and she
must stay behind, passive and of no account, while the cur-
rent of Jennifer met and gaily mingled with a fresh cur-
rent and fled on. It seemed as if even the opportunity for
the gesture of relinquishment was to be denied her. And
then, wearily returning from lectures one morning she
found upon her table a torn scrap of paper scrawled over
violently in an unknown hand.

4 Please be in your room at six o y clock this evening .
want to see you .

Geraldine Manners /

1

It was an insolent note. She would ignore such a com-
mand. She would put a notice up on her door: Engaged —
and turn the key; and when the woman came she would just
have to go away again.

But at six o’clock Geraldine knocked loudly and she cried:
4 Come in.* They stood facing each other.

4 Sit down/ said Judith. But neither of them made any
movement.

4 1 wanted to see you/ Her voice was low and emotional
— angry perhaps; and Judith had a moment’s fainting sense
if impotence. The woman was so magnificent, so mature
and well-dressed; if there was to be a fight, what chance
was there for a thin young student in a woollen jumper?

She leaned against the mantelpiece and, staring at Judith,
flung at her:

4 What’s all this about? ’

Judith sat down again, without a word, and waited,

DUSTY ANSWER

184

steadily holding the green eyes with her own. She heard the
blood beat deafeningly in her ears.

Geraldine went on:

c I think it’s the damnedest bit of impertinence I ever
heard. Schoolgirls! My God! ’ She flung her head back
theatrically.

Judith thought, with a shudder of excitement and an-
guish: ‘ Wait, wait. It is because you are unused to it that
it seems like physical blows. Soon you will be able to col-
lect yourself. This is anger and you are the cause. You
are being insulted and called to account for the first time
in your life. Carry it off. Carry it off 9

And her blood went on repeating ‘ Jennifer 9 in her
ears. ♦

Geraldine took a gold cigarette case and the amber holder
from a gold chain bag with a sapphire clasp.

‘ It’s pretty awful, isn’t it, to be so mean and petty? I’m
sorry for you, I must say.’

1 Please don’t be sorry for me.’ She noted her own voice,
icy and polite.

Geraldine had inserted a thin, yellow cigarette in the
holder and was searching for a match.

‘ Here,’ said Judith. She got up, took the matchbox from
the mantelpiece and struck a light. Geraldine stooped her
head down over the little flare. White lids, black curling
lashes, broad cheek-bones, Egyptian lips — the heaviness, the
thick waxen texture of the whole face: Judith saw them all
with an aching and terrible intensity, her eyes clinging to the
head bowed above her hand. She should have smelt like
a gardenia.

‘ Thank you/ said Geraldine. She lifted her head, nar-
rowed her eyes and puffed out smoke, moving and stretch-
ing her mouth faintly round the amber. She smoked like
a man.

Judith sat down again,

Geraldine seemed now very much at her ease. She leaned

DUSTY ANSWER 1 85

against the mantelpiece, dominating the room: and she
seemed of gigantic height and significance.

4 Are you a friend of Jennifer’s? ’ she slid.

4 Jennifer — is a person I know well.’

She looked at Judith as if in surprise at her tone and
manner.

4 I had no idea of that. She never mentioned you.’

For a moment that dealt a blinding blow, with its in-
stantaneous implications of dishonesty and indifference.
But she repeated :

4 I’ve known her well for two years. You can ask her.
She might admit it.’ And as she spoke the last words she
thought with sudden excitement : 4 Just as I never mentioned
Roddy. , .

4 Oh, I can’t get anything out of her,* said Geraldine
and added truculently: 4 You might as well tell me what it’s
all about.’

4 I have nothing whatever to tell you. I don’t know why
you’ve come. I’d like you to tell me what it’s all about — or
else go away, please.’ She was conscious all at once of a ter-
rible inward trembling, and got up again. The other
watched her in silence, and she added: 4 I haven’t been near
her — since that night in her room. I’ve kept away — you
know that night. . . .’

4 What night? ’

Judith broke into a sort of laugh; and then checked her-
self with a vast effort: for the suppressed hysteria of weeks
was climbing upwards within her and if it broke loose, it
might never, never cease.

4 Well — one night,’ she said, 4 I thought perhaps you
remembered.’

There was not a flicker on Geraldine’s face. She must
be very stupid or very cruel.

4 What beats me,’ said Geraldine, 4 is why this dead set
against me? — against her and me. What do you want to
interfere with us for? It’s not your business, any of you.
I thought I’d come and tell you so.’

j 86

DUSTY ANSWER

There was a curious coarseness about her: almost a vul-
garity. It was difficult to combat.

Judith lifted her eyes and looked at her in silence.

‘ So you’ve all sent Jennifer to Coventry.’ She laughed.
* It’s marvellous. A female institution is really marvellous.
At least it would be if it weren’t so nauseating.’ Still Judith
was silent, and she added contemptuously:

‘ I should have thought a bit better of you if you’d come
yourself. Do you generally get other people to do your
dirty work for you? ’

Judith got up and went towards the door.

1 Whgre are you going? ’ said Geraldine sharply.

* To Jennifer, to ask her to explain.’

* You can’t do that.’ The change in her voice and man-
ner was noticeable. i Jennifer’s lying down. I left her
trying to sleep. She mustn’t be disturbed.’

*1 can go to Jennifer whenever I like. I can always
go to Jennifer. I don’t ask you whether I am to or
not.’

At last this was anger, anger! At last she was able to
want to wound, to cry: c I! I! I! ’ brutally, aggressively,
triumphantly in the face of her enemy. Pure anger for the
first time in life.

1 Please! Listen,’ Geraldine took a few steps towards
her. c Please, don’t go now. She’s very much upset. I left
her crying.’

Crying — crying? Oh, that was a good thing. It was
splendid that Jennifer should have been made to cry. . . .
And yet ... if this woman had made her cry — poor
Jennifer, darling Jennifer — you would

The situation seemed suddenly to have become reversed.
Judith felt herself momentarily strong in self-assurance;
and Geraldine was hesitating, as if doubtful what to say.

c What’s she crying about? It takes a good deal to make
Jennifer cry.’

Geraldine shot her a glance and said venomously:

1 Yes. As far as I can make out, one of your charming

DUSTY ANSWER

187

friends must have taken a good deal of trouble to make her
cry this morning. Anyway she seemed to have got it into
her head that she’s treated somebody, or one of you, very
badly — and that somebody was hurt — yc i were hurt — be-
cause she’d been neglecting you for me.’

4 How do you know she meant me ? ’

She was silent, and then said:

4 She was crying a good deal and thoroughly upset and I
heard her say your name. So I went and asked someone
where your room was and came straight. ISut you were out.’

4 Did she tell you to come ? ’

c She didn’t tell me not to.’

4 Then she told you where my room was. She knows
you’re here.’

4 1 didn’t ask her where your room was. I — found out.’

4 And does she know you’re here? ’

4 No.’ She added after a silence. 4 1 didn’t come here
to be cross-questioned.’

4 What did you come here for? ’

4 Just to tell you we care that ’ — she snapped her fingers
— 4 for your mean little jealousies.’

4 Oh, it seems scarcely worth coming, just for that. It
wasn’t worth losing your temper over, was it? Little
jealousies are so common — in a female institution. I do
think you over-estimate their importance. It isn’t as if you
cared what we said, because you’ve just told me you don’t —
either of you.’

4 And,’ she said, raising her voice angrily; * and to tell
you I consider you owe me an apology — me and Jennifer.’

4 Oh! ’ Judith buried her face in her hands and laughed.
4 Oh! that’s very funny.’

She looked up at Geraldine with a sudden fantastic hope
that she would see her laughing too; but the face presented
to her was hostile and heavy. At sight of it she felt the
laughter begin to shake her terrifyingly; and checked it with
a gasp.

Geraldine said:

1 88

DUSTY ANSWER

€ I suppose you will deny having anything to do with
this? *

c Oh, deny it — of course I do/ said Judith with weary
contempt.

‘ Deny having insinuated — suggested ’ she began

loudly.

M have never bothered to mention your name to anyone.
Why should I? It’s nothing to do with me/

c No/ she said, her face and voice rousing a little from
their heavy deliberate monotony. ‘ It’s nothing to do with
you/ She thought a moment and added slowly: ‘Then
there\some misunderstanding/

4 Yes, some misunderstanding. Why go on treating it as
if it were important? 9

After a silence she said:

4 Anything, however slight, that comes between me and
Jennifer is important/

Judith felt herself start to tremble again. Those slow
words rang a doom for her; and her spurious advantage
was at an end.

6 Fm sorry/ she said uncertainly, ‘if I have come be-
tween you and Jennifer/

* Not you 9 she said. (Yes, she was a stupid or a cruel
woman.) 4 But I know what people’s mischievous tongues
can do, and I wanted to get to the bottom of it before I go
away. Just to assure myself that I’m not leaving her to face
anything — unpleasant or distressing/

4 Ah, so you realize how easily she’s influenced/

That was it then: the woman was afraid. She had given
herself away at last: she knew the terrible insecurity of lov-
ing Jennifer. Judith felt a quiver of new emotion dart
through her: it seemed like a faint pity.

$ I don’t want her bothered/ said Geraldine aggressively.
‘ I loathe this interfering/

4 You don’t quite understand/ said Judith in a voice
of calm explanation, 4 how much Jennifer means to some
people — a lot of people here. They love her. Naturally

DUSTY ANSWER

189

they resent it a little when somebody else comes in and
claims all her attention. They miss her. Isn’t it natural?
And then you see, since you’ve been he<e I believe she’s
been getting into awful trouble for negating her work.
I heard one of them say so a day or two ;go — and another
one said it was time someone spoke to her or she’d be sent
down. So I daresay that’s what happened : somebody tried
to give her a sort of warning. Of course it was silly: but
then, as you say, girls are silly. It was meant kindly.*
She paused, feeling a kind of faintness, took a deep sighing
breath and continued:

* If my name was brought into it, it was because I have
had — I think — a certain amount of influence with Jennifer.
She and I were a good deal together at one time. But lately
I have been working very hard. They have no business
at all. . . .’

She felt her voice dwindling and stopped, trembling now
uncontrollably.

Geraldine lit another cigarette and leaned back against
the mantelpiece. Oh, she was going to lean there for ever!
If only she would allow you to soften her into some emo-
tion of pity and understanding so that you might fling your-
self down and weep, crying: cc Now you must understand.
Now I have told you all. Leave me.” But there was no
hope of that. Her hostility was hardening. She was more
alert now; and she seemed to be taking note for the first
time since her sweeping entrance of Judith’s person. Her
eyes went attentively over face, hands, feet, hair, clothes,
and over the whole room. Something alive was rearing
itself from the stony envelope. She was silent for a long
time, and then said uncertainly:

‘ I hope you won’t — mention all this to her.’ Judith
laughed.

‘ I can’t quite promise that,’ she said. c You see, we’ve
been used to telling each other most things. There’s no
reason to make a mystery of it. Is there? ’

She was silent again; and then said:

DUSTY ANSWER

190

c I think it would be best not to say anything to her. I
don’t want her to think there’s been any fuss. I don’t
think she’ll care to hear any more about it. She was very
unwilling to — to dwell ’

That brought home Jennifer’s attitude with painful
clarity. She was, of course, flying to escape. Why should
she go free always, always? This time it would be easy
to make her uncomfortable, if not to hurt her. And yet,
it could not be done. Once more she felt the faintest stir
of sympathy with Geraldine. She said with a shrug:

c Very well, I won’t refer to it.’

i Wejll agree,* said Geraldine, ‘ to keep it to ourselves.’

Judith nodded.

Geraldine threw away her cigarette, smoothed her sleek
hair, stood upright as if preparing to go and said with brisk
indifference:

1 Well, I’m sorry if I’ve been a nuisance.’

‘ Oh, you haven’t been a nuisance.’

Judith crushed her cold hands into her lap. Now it
was almost over: soon she could let herself collapse. But
Geraldine still lingered, looking about her.

1 You’ve got nice things,’ she said. £ Most of the rooms
I’ve seen are too frightful.’

£ I’m luckier than most girls here. I have more money.’

* Do you like being here ? ’

* I have liked it — and disliked it.’

* Hmm. Jennifer hates it. I don’t wonder. I think
I’ve persuaded her to leave and come abroad with me.’

Defeat at last. She had no answer to that, not one
weapon left. She stared before her, paralyzed,

* I can’t think,’ added Geraldine, 1 how she’s stuck it so
long.’

Judith heard herself say slowly, softly:

4 As I told you, there are a great many people here who
love her. That makes a difference, doesn’t it? People
have to love Jennifer.’ She buried her face in her hands,
and thought aloud, in a sort of whisper: * People have to

DUSTY ANSWER

191

love her and then she seems cruel. But she doesn’t mean to
be. There’s something about her — people don’t seem to be
able to love her clearly and serenely: thev have to love her
too much. Everything gets dark and confused and aching,
and they want to — touch her and be the < nly one near her;
they want to look after her and give her everything she
wants. It’s tiring. And then when the} ’re tired she gives
them back life. She pours life into them from herself.’

She stopped short, seeing in a flash how it had always been
between herself and Jennifer. Tired, you had come again
and again to her, pressing close to be replenished from her
vitality. But Jennifer had not drunk life from you in re-
turn: quietness and tenderness and understanding, but not
life. And the quietness had passed into sadness — yes, you
knew now you had seen it happening sometimes, — sadness,
flatness: the virtue had gone out of her in the incessant giv-
ing of herself, the incessant taking on of an alien quietness.
You had wanted too much, you had worn her out. Perhaps
after all you had been unlucky to Jennifer, committed that
crime of trying to possess her separateness, — craved more
than even she could give without destroying herself. So in
the end she had gone to someone more wholesome for her
nature. Perhaps after all the balance had been sorely ill-
adjusted: she your creator, you her destroyer. Perhaps she
should be surrendered to Geraldine now, ungrudgingly.
She said, looking up at Geraldine:

c I daresay you make her very happy.’

Geraldine said, answering Judith’s gaze unwaveringly :

* Yes, we are very happy together. Absolutely happy.’

c She is a good companion, isn’t she? ’

* Oh yes,’ she said, her heavy lips lifting in a faint cu-
rious smile.

What was in her voice? — insolence? — triumph? — mal-
ice? — an obscure challenge? She seemed to be implying that
she knew things about Jennifer of which you had no knowl-
edge. She was a terrible woman.

Judith could find no words, and the other continued:

DUSTY ANSWER

192

i She’s starting to find herself. It’s very interesting.
Of course nobody’s understood her here.’

c And you think you do? ’

c I do, yes . 5

c Oh, but I’d never dare say that about a person I
loved! You might seem to touch everywhere and all the
time be strangers.’ Judith clasped her hands and spoke
urgently:

‘ Oh, don’t you feel how you might long to say to some-
one you love: I give you all myself, all myself — and all the
time be sad because with all your efforts and longing you
know you never could — that the core can’t ever be stirred at
all? It seems such dreadful arrogance to say — ’ she stopped
short, pressing her hand to her lips, shutting her eyes. After
a pause she added quickly: ‘ But I don’t doubt you love
her . . .’ she sighed. c Thank God this term is nearly
over. This is a terrible place for getting overwrought.’

Geraldine seemed to be thinking deeply. Her face was
awake and preoccupied behind its heavy mask.

c It’s very odd,’ said Judith, c how she doesn’t value her
brains in the very least — isn’t interested in them — can’t be
bothered, I suppose you know - she’s the most brilliant his-
tory student of her year. Easily. Of course she’s never
worked, but she could have done anything she liked; In
spite of all her idleness and irresponsibility they were still
excited about her — they thought she’d do something in the
end. And I was going to make her pull it off. I could have
— in one term. I mean I could have once. Not now of
course.’

Her voice ceased drearily. As if it would matter to
Geraldine how much Jennifer wasted brains, or academic
opportunities ... as if it would move her!

The bell started to ring for Hall.

‘ There! 9 said Judith, ‘ I must brush my hair I suppose,
and go down. Are you coming to Hall? ’

‘ No. I’m going to dine in Cambridge.’

Judith rose and stood before her, looking full at her for

DUSTY ANSWER 1 93

the last time. She thought suddenly: c Bat she’s not beau-
tiful! She’s hideously ugly, repulsive.’

That broad heavy face and thick neck, those coarse and
masculine features, that hothouse skin: What taste Jen-
nifer must have to find her attractive! . . .

Oh no, it was no good saying that. J n spite of all, she
was beautiful: her person held an appalling fascination.
She was beautiful, beautiful. You woul l never be able to
forget her face, her form. You would ste it and dream of
it with painful desire: as if she could satisfy something,
some hunger, if she would. But she was not for you. The
secret of her magnetism, her rareness must be for ever be-
yond reach; but not beyond imagination.

Judith cried out inwardly : c Tell me all your life! ’ All
about herself, where she had come from, why she was alone
and mysterious, why she wore such clothes, such pearls, how
she and Jennifer had met, what knowledge her expression
half-hid, half-revealed. Time had swept her down one
moment out of space, portentously, and now was sweeping
her away again, unknown. And now, in the end, you
wanted to implore her to stay, to let herself be known, to
let you love her. Yes, to let you love her. It was not true
that you must hate your enemies. What was all this hatred
and jealousy? Something so terrifyingly near to love, you
dared not contemplate it. You could love her in a moment,
passionately, for her voice, her eyes, her beautiful white
hands, for loving Jennifer — anything.

The bell stopped ringing.

c Good-bye,’ said Judith. * I’m late.’ She held out her
hand.

Geraldine took it. Her hand was cool, smooth and firm.

‘ Good-bye.’

c Are you — staying much longer? ’

< I’m going away to-morrow.’

c I’d like to have known you better,’ said Judith, very low,
and she lifted her eyes to the long, hidden eyes of Geraldine.
( I hope you and she will be happy when you go abroad.’

DUSTY ANSWER

194

She opened the door politely, and then said, smiling: i We
won’t forget each other, will we ? ’

* No,’ said Geraldine, still watching her. But she did
not smile.

They went their different ways along the corridor.

Now to go down to the dull food and clamour, to sit
among them all and torture herself with fancying inter-
cepted glances which might have pity in them; to hear per-
haps, her name and Jennifer’s in a whispered aside; to try
with anguish to guess which of them it was who had dared
to drag her pain from its hiding-place and proclaim it aloud.

n

Jennifer lay in bed; and on her door was pinned a notice
signed by the matron: No visitors allowed .

Her friends were disconsolate, and the evening gatherings
were leaden spirited. It was certain there had not been so
much evening work done before in the whole two years.
There was nothing better to do now: no excitement, no
laughter or colour. They went on tiptoe past the shut door
and the notice: for Jennifer, so it was said, was threatened
with nervous collapse, and her only chance lay in sleep and
quiet. But in all the rumours, discussions and communica-
tions which went on over Jennifer’s case, Judith took no
part.

Once indeed when they were all at Hall and the corridor
was empty of echoes, Judith had crept up to the door, lin-
gered hesitating, then noiselessly turned the handle and
looked in.

The electric lamp shone beside the bed and Jennifer lay
with her face turned to the wall. All that was visible was
her hair, tossed in a rough mass over the pillow and palely
burning where the dim light struck it. Her death-like un-
consciousness was intolerable pain. She should have stirred
at least, feeling a presence through all the seals of sleep.
. . . But she did not move; and night after night the

DUSTY ANSWER

195

sight of that unstirring hair upon the pillovv returned, mock-
ing her longing to reach to Jennifer w th a picture that
seemed the symbol for all that was eternally uncommunicat-
ing and imperturbable.

They said she was to be sent home before the end of
term; then that her mother had arrived, was to take her
away on the morrow.

That night the message came: Jennifer wanted to say
good-bye to Judith.

Jennifer’s boxes stood packed and strapped in a corner.
Her personality had already, terrifyingly, been drained
from her two rooms. There was now only a melancholy
whisper of that which, during the two years of her tenancy,
had filled the little space between her walls with a warm
mystery. She had become identified with the quickening
of imagination, the lyrical impulse. Oh, how ridiculous,
how sad, to have made one person into all poetry! To-mor-
row it would all be finished.

Judith went softly from the sitting-room into the bed-
room: and there was Jennifer lying back on her pillow and
waiting.

c Hullo, darling/ she said. Her voice was low and
mournful.

‘ Jennifer! ’

She put out her hand and Judith took it, clung to it, while
Jennifer drew her down beside her on the bed.

‘ Jennifer, darling, how are you? 9

c I’m better, I’ve slept. I was so tired. But I’m going
away/

* I know/

c Don’t tell anyone, Judith, but I’m not coming back/

1 Oh, Jennifer, what shall I do without you? ’

1 Darling, I can’t come back/ she said in an urgent,
painful whisper.

* I know. I know. And I must come back, I suppose.
I’m like that: I can’t uproot. You’re wise, you never grow

DUSTY ANSWER

196

roots. So you can go away when you want to without
making a wound in yourself. It’s no good my pretending
I could do the same. I must wait; though goodness knows
for what: the examinations I suppose. This place without
you. ... Oh! ’

She pressed her forehead against the hand that still held
hers, abandoning, with her last words, the effort to speak
lightly.

4 Darling/ said Jennifer. * It is making a wound — you
ought to know. You’re making a wound.’

4 Then why do you go away f rom me ? ’

4 Oh, Judith, I’ve got to go! ’ She sighed wearily.
4 What f really wanted to say to you was: please forgive me
for everything.’

4 Forgive. . . . Oh, Jennifer. . .’

4 Don’t Say there’s nothing to forgive. Say I forgive
you.’

4 1 forgive you then.’

4 Because I have hurt you, haven’t I? ’

4 It wasn’t your fault. Nothing’s been your fault.’

4 I’ve been unhappy too. I thought I was going off my
head a little while ago.’ She sighed again. 4 It’s all such a
muddle. I do get into such muddles. I’m so used to flying
to you to be got out of them, I can’t think how I shall man-
age without you.’

Judith was silent, her throat aching with tears. Never to
hear Jennifer’s step hurrying along the corridor, never
again to see her burst flushed and desperate into the room
crying: 4 Oh, darling, I’m in such a muddle. . . That
had been such a thing to look forward to: it had been such
pleasure to comfort, advise, explain, even though the mud-
dles had generally been found to be laughable trifles.

4 1 wanted to say some more things, but it’s so difficult,’
Jennifer weht on. 4 Now you’re here I can’t say anything.’

4 Don’t try, darling. I’m quite happy.’

Her face had got thinner, thought Judith, her expression

DUSTY ANSWER

197

had little if anything of the child left in it, and her lips
which had always been slightly parted in repose were now
folded together in an unnatural line.

c Mother’s come to fetch me.’ She laughed. ‘ She is
being extremely dutiful and chilling and gr eved at me. I
hope you haven’t come across her. She’s not 1 bit nice. I’m
going to Scotland. Oh, the moors! I’ll oon get better
there. Then I’ll go abroad or something.’ She laughed
again. c I suppose Mother’ll try to send me back here next
term. I shall have some glorious wrangling. Perhaps
they’ll wash their hands of me for ever. If only they
would! Oh, if I could be on my own!— no ties! ’

Her eyes sparkled at the thought of breaking her fetters.
Already, in spite of her sorrow, she was thinking with ex-
citement: What next ? She was ready to contemplate a
fresh start. Soon her indomitable vitality would light upon
and kindle fresh objects; and all around her would live, as
once you had lived, in her glow. She would have no time,
no room, to remember what had once absorbed her,
Judith turned her head away, tasting despair; for it seemed
that the zest for life they had both shared burned in Jenni-
fer undiminished now that the time of sharing was over;
while for her it had gone out, like a snuffed candle.

Jennifer fastened her great eyes upon her, whispering:
< You don’t know how I shall miss you.’

Ah, she saw she had wounded, — was trying, too late, to
make amends. Judith answered, making her voice harsh
and scornful:

c Oh no, you won’t. You’ll find heaps of new thrilling
people and you’ll soon forget me.’

* Oh ’ was all Jennifer said, beneath her breath.

She shut her eyes, and Judith saw her mouth alter and
quiver, ‘You don’t understand,’ she whispered after a
long time. ‘ No, you don’t understand. God, I’m in such
a muddle.’

It was no use trying to find comfort from hurting Jenni-

DUSTY ANSWER

198

fer. There was nothing but pain to be had from the spec-
tacle of that beloved face shrinking and helpless. Whatever
it cost all must be made easy for her.

c I’m sorry, Jennifer, I’m sorry, my darling. There!
don’t worry. I understand. Don’t cry. Listen: it’s like
this, isn’t it? You’re not happy here any more. You’re
restless. And you’ve been — been living too hard and you’re
worn out. So you want to get away from all the people
you’ve been with — all the ones you associate with feeling ill
and awful — you want to start afresh, somewhere quite new.
Isn’t that it? ’

‘partly,’ whispered Jennifer.

* Things have all gone wrong lately. And I’m involved,
aren’t I? It’s really about me that things have gone wrong.
I don’t know why — but I know it is so. So you really can’t
bear to see me any more.’

‘ Oh, Judith! ’ She hid her face. ‘ It sounds so terrible
when you say it like that: “Can’t bear to see me any more”
. . . Oh! ’

4 But I’m right, aren’t I, Jennifer? ’

4 Oh, it sounds as if it were your fault, as if you thought
it was something you’d done ’

‘Then it’s not — something I’ve done? ’

c God, no! ’

The relief of that fierce denial brought a momentary il-
lusion of happiness, for she had painfully persisted in trying
to fasten the chief blame on herself.

‘ I’m glad. . . . But it is true, isn’t it, that I’m in-
volved in all that’s gone wrong; and that you must get
away from me? 9

4 Oh yes, oh yes, because I can’t bear myself — because I
must forget — because the thought of you is such a reproach

... the way I’ve treated you ’ her voice was almost

inaudible.

4 Don’t, Jennifer, don’t. You’ve nothing to blame your-
self for. It’s just the way things happen. That’s how I
look at it. As long as it’s not anything I’ve done, as long as

DUSTY ANSWER

199

you tell me I haven’t — disappointed you somehow, I don’t
mind — much not understanding ’

* Oh, you’re so good to me, you’re so kind. And there’s
nothing I can do except hurt you. I’ve never done anything
for you.’

1 Oh, Jennifer, you’ve been all my happiness for two
years.’

c It was very silly of you to be made happy l y a person like
me. You might have known I’d let you do*n in the end.’

* You haven’t let me down.’

1 Yes. I’ve made you unhappy.’

It was not much use denying that.

Geraldine seemed to be in the room, watching and listen-
ing. Judith felt her head droop as if beneath a tangible
weight, and a most dreary sense of impotence fastened upon
her. What was the use of talking, when all the time Ger-
aldine, absent and untalked-of, controlled their secret de-
cisions? To ignore her made a mockery of all attempted
solutions and consolations, and yet to speak of her seemed
impossible.

* Well, you’ve been unhappy too.’

c Yes. Oh yes. Oh, Judith! There’s something I must
ask you.’

She put her face against Judith’s arm, and the desperate
pressure of her eyes, nose, lips upon the bare flesh was
strange and breath-taking. Her lips searched blindly over
wrist and forearm into the hollow of the elbow where they
paused and parted; and Judith felt the faint and thrilling
touch of her teeth. . . .

But then Jennifer flung her arm away and said in a dry
and careful voice.

c I wanted to know: did you cry in your room night after
night because I — because of the way I was behaving? ’

‘ I’ve never cried, Jennifer.’

That was true enough. There were no tears to soften
such arid and in fecund griefs.

c Ah! ’ she said. ‘ You say that as if ’

200

DUSTY ANSWER

‘ Why did you think I’d cried? *

c Oh, it was just an idea I got. Something somebody
said put it into my head and I couldn’t get rid of it. But
now — I don’t know. The way you spoke makes me almost
wish you had cried: because you seemed to mean you hadn’t
been able to.’

■ She shut her eyes and lay still.

‘Jennifer, don’t. Don’t let’s go on. What’s the use?
You know we’re not putting anything right or doing each
other any good. It’s getting late — so I’d better go. You’ll
be so tired tomorrow and it’ll be my fault. I ought never
to have come.’

c Oh, don’t go yet! ’ she besought. ‘ Look. We won’t
talk any more. There’s some things I must say, but perhaps
I’ll be able to say them later.’ She sat up in bed. c I’ve
been feeling so gloomy! Let’s try to be cheerful for a
change. Really, my gloom has been beyond a joke. I’ve
wanted to hide in a dark hole. Imagine! I think my
hair must look awful. Fetch me my brush, darling. I sim-
ply haven’t had the heart to give it a good brushing for ages.’

Her spirits were rising: the tone of her voice had changed,
and the peculiar individuality of her manner of speech had
returned with surprising suddenness.

1 Would you like me to brush it? ’ asked Judith.

‘ Oh yes, darling. You’ve a lovely hand with the hair
brush. Geraldine would brush my hair for me every night,
and my God, the agony! ’

The brush wavered and stopped for a moment in Judith’s
hand. But Jennifer seemed unaware of any cause for em-
barrassment. It was as if she had cast from her the self
whose lips were sealed upon that name. It was of no more
account to her in her present mood to announce that Geral-
dine had brushed her hair than to declare, as she did in the
next breath, that her hair needed washing. Geraldine no
longer existed for her as a person of dark significance. She
had become dissolved like all other grave perplexities into a

DUSTY ANSWER

201

uniform light ebullience and froth; and her name had been
thrown off unconcernedly and forgotten on t le instant.

Amazing, terrifying, admirable creature- -thought Ju-
dith — who, when life pressed too heavily u{ >n her, could
resolve life into airy meaninglessness; could prase, as it were
deliberately, and re-charge herself with vital y.

Judith brushed out the strange, springy electric stuff, and
then buried her face in it a moment. Surely Jennifer’s se-
cret lay in her hair: perhaps, if it were cut off the virtue
would go out of her.

6 I’m hungry,’ said Jennifer. * Darling, there’s some
cake in the cupboard. Mother brought it. She does know
how to minister to the flesh I will say. She’s that sort of
woman you know: holds you with hot-water bottles and
pudding and destroys you spiritually. And would you like
to make some chocolate, darling? Let’s feel bilious to-
gether for the last time.’ She laughed cheerfully.

They ate and drank, and then Judith came and lay on
the bed beside her, and she slipped her arm beneath Judith’s
thin shoulder, patting it as she talked.

i I forgive all my enemies,’ said Jennifer. c Tell Mabel
I forgive her and I hope God will cure her spots in time.
She has been an enemy, hasn’t she? She’d like to knife me.
Give all my chemistry and biology books to Dorothy. She
can’t afford to buy any. I shan’t ever look at them again,
thank God. If I have to earn my living I shall direct my
talents towards something more flashy. Where shall I be, I
wonder, by the summer? When you’re all sweating over
your exams I shall laugh to think of you.

c Darling, I’ve left you my copper bowl. You always
said it had nice lights in it. If I go to Italy I’ll send you a
crate of oranges for it. It looks its best with oranges. It’s
the nicest thing I’ve ever had, so of course it’s for you.
Take it and don’t forget me.’ She lay back looking white
and tired.

* Oh, Jennifer ’ Judith clutched her hand and was

202

DUSTY ANSWER

speechless. After a while she added: ‘ I shall feel I haven’t
quite lost you. Your lovely bowl. It’s always seemed such
a part of you . 5

‘ It’s all of me/ whispered Jennifer. ‘ I leave it to you.’

The momentary lightness was now past, vanishing as
swiftly as it had come. There was now such a sense of
approaching desolation as had never been before in life*
This was the end.

‘ Then I must say good-bye/ said Judith.

‘ Draw back the curtain.’

Judith obeyed. As she went to the window she felt
Jennifer’s eyes upon her.

The night was frosty, dark and still, and the midnight
stars glittered in trembling cold'multitudes over the arch of
the sky. Below the window the unmoving trees made a blot
of yet profoundcr darkness. Across the court, the opposite
w r ing of the building was just distinguishable, a mass impen-
etrably deep; but there were no lights in the windows: not
even in Mabel’s. Everybody in College was asleep.

‘Oh! ’ sighed Jennifer. ‘The smell of the limes, and
the nightingales! I’d like to have had them once again.’

Judith let the curtain drop and came quickly and sank on
her knees by the bed.

‘Then come back, Jennifer, and have them with me.
Why not, why not? You’ll be well by next term. Every-
thing will be forgotten. Our last term . . . Jennifer! ’

‘No!’ she covered her face with her hands. ‘No,
Judith, I could never come back here. Everything’s gone
all wrong. Everything’s as if — as if it had been poisoned.
I must go away and get it straight. Listen/ She put both
arms around Judith’s neck and held her in a hard painful
embrace. ‘ The things I meant to say, — I don’t think I can
say them. I thought I could before I saw you, but now*
you’re here it doesn’t seem clear any more. I don’t really
know what I think — what I mean, and if I tried to explain
you might — might not understand. Oh, Judith! *

She began to cry, and stopped he/self. ‘ There are things

DUSTY ANSWER

203

in life you’ve no idea about. I can’t explain. You’re such
a baby really, aren’t you? I always think of you as the
most innocent thing in the world.’

* Jennifer, you know you can tell me am thing.’

Yet she knew, while she pleaded, that sht shrank from
knowing.

c Oh yes, it’s true, you understand everything.’ Jennifer
tightened her arms desperately and seemed to be hesitating,
then said at last: c No, I’m in a muddle. I'm afraid. I
should explain all wrong, as I always do. But I’ll write to
you, darling. I may not write to you for some time: or it
may be to-morrow. But I swear I’ll write. And then I’ll
explain everything.’

c And we’ll see each other again, Jennifer? We’ll meet
often? ’

c Perhaps. I don’t know. It depends,’ she whispered.
Her face was still hidden, her arms firm in their strangling
g ri P-

c Oh yes, yes, Jennifer! Oh please! Why these
mysteries? Jennifer — if — if there’s somebody else you’re
fond of I don’t mind. Why should it make any difference
to you and me? I’m not jealous.’

c I’ll write to you,’ repeated Jennifer, very wearily
whispering.

c Soon then, soon, Jennifer. Tell me how you are, what
you’re going to do. Tell me if you go abroad, who — who
you go with. Tell me everything. Because I shall wonder
and wonder. I shall imagine all sorts of things. . . . Jen-
nifer. . . .’

‘ Hush, darling. I’ll be all right, I swear. And I swear
that directly everything gets clear I’ll write to you. And
then we’ll see. you do trust me, don’t you? ’

‘ Yes.’

* And you must promise me to answer.’

‘ Yes.’

c But don’t write before I write to you.’

‘ No.’

DUSTY ANSWER

204

c Good-bye, my darling.’ She let her arms fall to her
sides.

At the door Judith turned, forcing her mouth into a
smile, but Jennifer was not looking at her. Once again,
only the tangle of her hair was visible, burning in the lamp-
light.

The end of the term.

There had been no word from Jennifer. She had van-
ished. But she was to be trusted: you had only to wait and
she would write. Or was she not to be trusted?

Her copper bowl stood on the table, and there seemed no
other rumour of her left in the whole place, save on the
tongues of people; and even they were sparing of her name,
spoke it with doubt and hesitation.

On the last day of term, Judith, peering a moment into
the aching emptiness of Jennifer’s room, saw the cord of
her old manly Jaeger dressing-gown lying in the grate.

12

Then, for months, there was nothing in life save work:
a careful planning out of day and night in order that sleep-
ing and eating and exercise might encroach as little as pos-
sible on the working hours.

Soon, Midsummer term was back with unprecedented
profusion of blossom on the fruit trees, buttercups in the
meadows, nightingale choruses in the cedars and limes.
But now it seemed neither exciting nor delightful to be kept
awake till dawn by nightingales; for sleepless nights low-
ered your examination value. By day the two thrilling and
unearthly pipe-notes of the cuckoo seemed a mechanical
instrument of torture: you found yourself desperately count-
ing the calls, waiting between each, with a shrinking of all
the nerves, for the next to strike. Almost you resented
the flowery orchards and meadows with their pagan-like riot
of renewal. You noted them with a dull eye from behind

DUSTY ANSWER

20 5

the stiff ponderous academic entrenchment* of your mind.
But sometimes in the night, in dreams, the orchards would
not be denied: they descended upon you an 1 shook out fra-
grance like a blessing; they shone in pale drifts, in clouds,
in seas, — all the orchards of England camt before you, lu-
minous and stirring beneath the moon.

From early morning till late at night tht desperate meek
untidy heads of girls were bowed over tables in the library,
their faces when they lifted them were feverish and blurred
with work.

Pages rustled; pencils whispered; squeaking shoes tiptoed
in and out. Somebody tapped out a dreary tune on her
teeth; somebody had a running cold; somebody giggled be-
neath her breath; somebody sighed and sighed.

Outside, in the sunshine, tennis racquets struck vibrantly.
Long ago, you also had played tennis in May.

Mabel had a fortification of dictionaries around her cor-
ner; whenever you looked up she caught your eye and smiled
weakly from a hollow and twisted face. Mabel had wished
evil to Jennifer. But that was so long ago it had ceased to
matter.

c Mabel, you’ve worked four hours on end. Come to
lunch now.’

< No, thank you, Judith. I feel I don’t want any lunch.
I’d rather go straight on and perhaps have a cup of tea
later.’

1 Mabel, you’re to come with me.’

She came. But as often as not she laid down her fork af-
ter one mouthful and sat and stared in front of her; then
crept back to the library.

The copper bowl was filled this term with golden tulips
or with dark brown wallflowers.

Where was Jennifer?

Examination week. The sky was fiercely blue all day;
the air breathless, heavy. To walk into the town was to
walk into a steam bath, where footsteps moved ever more

20 6

DUSTY ANSWER

languidly, and the dogs lay panting on the pavement, and
the clocks seemed to collect themselves with a vast effort for
their chiming.

This week there was nothing in your mind save the
machine which obeyed you smoothly, turning out dates and
biographies, contrasting, discussing, theorizing.

Judith walked in a dream among the pale examination
faces that flowed to their doom. Already at nine o’clock the
heat struck up from the streets, rolled downwards from the
roofs. By midday it would be extremely unpleasant in
Cambridge.

Thft was the great examination hall. Girls were filing
in, each carrying a glass of water, and searching in a sort of
panic for her place. Here was a \tfhite ticket labelled Earle,
J. So Judith Earle really was expected, an integral part of
this grotesque organized unreality. No hope now.

The bench was hard. Beside her sat a kind broad cow-
like creature with sandy hair and lashes. Her ruminative
and prominent eyes shed pity and encouragement. She was
a good omen.

All over the room girls’ heads turned, nodding and wink-
ing at friends, whispering, giggling and grimacing with
desperate bravery. One simulated suicide by leaning her
bosom on her fountain pen.

Just behind sat Mabel. Her face was glistening and
ghastly, and she sniffed at a bottle of smelling salts.

1 Mabel, are you going to faint? ’

c No, I don’t think so. I generally feel faintlike first
thing in the morning. I’ll get better later.’

1 Mabel, you’re not fit — you mustn’t ’

1 Sh! I’m all right. Only it makes my head feel stupid.’
She stared aghast. 1 1 don’t seem to be able to remember a
thing.’ ’

€ Don’t worry, Mabel. It’ll all come back when you
settle down to it. I’ll look around now and then and see if
you’re all right.’

‘ Thanks, Judith.’

DUSTY ANSWER

207

‘Poor Mabel! Good luck. Wait for me afterwards
and I’ll take you to have a cup of coffee. That’ll do you
good.’

‘ I shall enjoy that. Good luck, Judith.’

She summoned a smile, even flushed fair ,Ty with pleasure.

Then panic descended suddenly upon J idith. Her head
was like a floating bubble; there was not ting in it at all.
She caught at threads of knowledge and they broke, with-
ered and dissolved like cobwebs in the hand. She struggled
to throw off a crowding confusion of nalf-rcmembered
words.

Unarm Eros > the long day’s task is done . And we must
sleep . . . . Peace! Peace ! Dost thou not see my baby at
my breast That sucks the nurse asleep? . . . Who said
that? Who could have said such a thing? I am Duchess of
Malfi still . . . . Cover her face . Mine eyes dazzle. She
died young . Beatrice died young too. Here Mother. . . .
bind up this hair in any simple knot. ... ay that does well.
. . . . Prithee undo this button. . . . Thank you y Sir
. . . Cordelia! Cordelia! So many of them died young.
There were those two, you had forgotten their names now,
and Cordelia, and Desdemona too. O, thou weed! ... It
might be useful to remember them. . . . But they had al-
ready slipped away. This was the parting that they had
Beside the haystack in the floods. William Morris. Speak
but one word to me over the corn. Over the tender bowed
locks of the corn. Gold cornfield like Jennifer. A brace -
let of bright hair about the bone . That had always been
Jennifer’s bright hair. . Only a woman’s hair . . . . Calm
hair , meandering in pellucid gold . But Jennifer’s hair
had never been calm. . . . Speak but one word to me.
Roddy, one whisper from you!

It was Tennyson who said: The wrinkled sea beneath him
crawls . . . And Browning who said: The old June
weather Blue above lane and wall . Keats, Coleridge,
Wordsworth, and Shelley. . . . What had they said? and
Blake:

208

DUSTY ANSWER

Bring me my low of burning gold; Bring me my arrows
of desire . , . . Once you had composed a tune for that.
Bring me my bow of burning gold . . . . Oh, stop saying
that now. Think about the origins of drama, the rise of the
universities, the development of the guilds, the order of
Shakespeare’s plays. . . . O God! A headful of useless
scraps rattling about in emptiness —

The clock struck nine.

€ You can begin now,’ said a thin voice from the dais.

There was an enormous sigh, a rustling of paper, then
silence.

The % questions had, nearly all, at first glance a familiar
reassuring look. It was all right. Panic vanished, the mind
assembled its energies, cooly, precisely, the pen flew.

After an hour the first pause to cool her forehead with
a stick of frozen Eau de Cologne and to sip some water.
Behind, poor Mabel’s dry little cough and sniff went on.
The head bowed low over her writing looked as if it could
never raise itself again.

Girls were wriggling and biting their pens. Somewhere
the tooth-tapper was playing her dreary tune. The Cow
looked up, shed a peaceful smile around her and continued
to write, with deliberation, a little impeded by her bosom.

Another hour fled. The trouble was having too much
to say, rather than too little. The room was rigid, dark with
concentration now. There came an appalling confusion
of haste and noise, and a girl rose and ran from the room,
supported by the invigilator. The handkerchief she held to
her nose was stained sickeningly with scarlet. She returned
in a little while, pallid and tearful, resumed her seat, bowed
herself once more over the paper.

Three hours. It was over. You could not remember
what you had written; but you had never felt more firm and
sure of mind. Three hours nearer to life.

Into the street once more, beneath the noon sun’s merci-
less down-beating. But now its rays seemed feeble: their

DUSTY ANSWER 209

warmth scarcely penetrated chilled hands and feet, or
shivering, aching back.

A troop of undergraduates passed on thr way from their
examination room. They looked amused and exhilarated.
They stuffed their papers into their packets, lit pipes,
straightened their shoulders and went cheerfully to lunch.

The girls crept out in twos and threes, * arnestly talking,
comparing the white slips they carried.

6 Did you do this one? 5

c What did you put for that? 5

c Oh, I say! Will they take off marks do you think? 5

c It was a beast . 5

c Oh, it might have been worse . 5

Girls really should be trained to be less obviously female
students. It only needed a little discipline.

There was Mabel to be looked after. She was grateful,
passive: she drank much coffee but refused food. She broke
the heavy silence once to say with a quiet smile : c Of course
I see now I shan’t pass — It seems a pity, after all that work
— My memory is practically gone 5

Back to the vault now for another three hours.

Suddenly round the corner came a slender, dark, sallow
boy. He walked with an idle grace, leaning slightly for-
ward. His faint likeness to Roddy made the heart leap; and
his expression was dejected and obstinate, just as Roddy’s
would be if he were forced to spend an afternoon scribbling
infernal rubbish.

Judith paused at the entrance of the vault and looked
back. His eyes were eagerly fixed on her: and she smiled
at him.

He was delighted. His funny boy face lost its heaviness
and broke up with intimate twinklings; and flashed a shyly
daring inquiry at her before he vanished round the corner.

It was like a message from Roddy, sent forward to meet
her from the new life, to say: ‘ Remember I am coming . 5

That day passed smoothly; and the next. The days sink-

210

DUSTY ANSWER

ing to evenings drenched with the smell of honeysuckle and
draining to phantasmal and translucent twilights of blossom
and tree-tops and starry skies, flowed imperceptibly to their
end.

Suddenly there were no answers to be written from nine
till twelve, from two till five — no lectures, no coachings, no
notes, no fixed working hours. Instead, a great idleness
under whose burden you felt lost and oppressed. The
academic years were gone for ever.

The evening before the end of term.

Judith walked with the rest of the circle arm in arm
across the grass, down the wooded path, past the honeysuckle
for the last time.

The garden spread out all her beauties that were hers
alone, overburdening the watchers, insisting:

c See what you are leaving. Look at what you will never
have again/

The whole shrine lay wide open for the last time, baring
its mysteries of cedar and limes and nightingales, of lawns
and mown hay, of blossoming shrubs and wild flowers grow-
ing beneath them, of copper beeches and all the high enclos-
ing tree-tops, serenely swimming like clouds in the last of
the light.

They chose careers for each other, light-heartedly dis-
cussing the future, and making plans for regular reunions.

* But what’s the good? ’ said one. 4 We shall all be
scattered really. We can’t come back year after year as if
things would all be the same. There’s nothing more awful
than those gatherings of elderly people trying to be girls
together again. The ghastliness of pretending to get back
to where one was! If we meet again, let it be in the big
world. I shall never come back here.’

€ Oh, but I shan’t have the strength to resist it,’ said
another. 4 You see I more or less know I shall never be so

DUSTY ANSWER

21 1

happy again. Fve got to teach brats algebra. I shall be
fulled back to indulge in vain regrets/

‘ Does it mean so much to you? > murmured Judith.
* You talk as if your life was over/

c Something that matters — terribly to me is over/ she
said, almost fiercely.

€ Oh! ’ Judith sighed.

‘ Doesn’t it mean anything to you then : y
Judith was silent, thinking how it had all meant the
single tremendous calamitous significance of Jennifer; how
since her going it had been like the muddy bed of a lake
whose waters have been sapped day after day in a long
drought; like a tasteless meal to be swallowed without ap-
petite; like a grey drizzling unwholesome weather. Noth-
ing had brought even a momentary illusion of restored con-
tentment: nothing save her copper bowl glowing for her
sake with flowers or fruit. Not one of those to whom she
had turned had been able to sooth the gnawing perpetual
sore, or bury for a single day that one face. And they knew
it. The three years’ absorption in Jennifer had separated her
irrevocably from them, and, though they had kindly wel-
comed her, it had been with the tacit assumption that she was
not of them.

They were so charming, so gentle, so sensitive and intelli-
gent: fascinating creatures: how fascinating she had never
troubled to realize and would never know now. To all,
save Jennifer, that had offered itself, she had turned an
unheeding ear, a blind eye. And so much that might have
been of enduring value had offered itself: so many possible
interests and opportunities had been neglected.

There had been that girl the first year who, from the
pinnacle of her third-year eminence, had stooped, blushing
and timid, with her invitation to an evening alone. Frail
temples, narrow exquisite bone of cheek and jaw, clear little
face with lips whose composure seemed the result of a vast
nervous effort, so still were they, so nearly quivering, so
vulnerable; eyes with a sad liquid brilliance in their steadfast

212

DUSTY ANSWER

gaze; small head with smooth brown hair parted in the mid-
dle; narrow hands folded in her lap; she had sat, the most
important scholar in the College, like a shadow, a moth, a
bird, listening, questioning, listening again.

She was a poet. She never showed her verses, but to you
she promised to show them. She had a mind of such im-
maculate clarity that you feared to touch it: yet she was of-
fering it to you, all that evening.

It had come to nothing after all. She had retired very
soon, shrinking from Jennifer as if she were afraid.

There had been the girl with the torturing love affair
that had gone wrong. One night she had suddenly spoken
of it, telling you all. You had lingered by her with a little
tenderness and pity and then passed on. She had said, “ You
won’t tell Jennifer, will you? ” '

There had been the girl who drew portraits and who had
wanted you for a model. There had been the silent girl
who read “ The Book of the Dead ” night after night in
her room, who was studying, so it was whispered, to raise
the devil and who looked at you with a secret smile, half
malice, half something else; there had been that most beau-
tiful young girl in the first year, with her cold angelic face
and shining silver-fair hair; all those and countless others
had offered themselves. There had been Martin ignored
and neglected because he disliked Jennifer. And there had
been books, far more books in far more libraries: and
new poetry, new music, new plays, — a hundred intellectual
diversions which you had but brushed against or missed alto-
gether by secluding yourself within the limits of an un-
profitable dream.

She said at last:

‘ Oh yes. It means something. I don’t know yet how
much. I’m afraid now I’ve missed a lot.’

They Ivere all silent, and she thought with nervous dread
that they were all thinking of Jennifer.

c Isn’t it extraordinary,’ said another, c how time seems

DUSTY ANSWER

213

to have stood still in this place? Nothing’s moved since
we’ve been here. Even though I suppose it’s all been
advancing towards the Tripos, I don’t f, el as if there’d
been any step forward. Everything — what’s the word? —
static. Or else just making circles. I feel I’ve been sitting
in a quiet safe pool for three years.’

6 And now we’re going to be emptied our.’

And swept into new life, thought Judith longingly.
Yet her heart misgave her. The building, caressed with
sunset, looked motherly and benign, spreading its sheltering
breast for the last time above its midgets. New life might
find nothing so secure and tranquil as its dispassionate
protection.

The clock struck the hour pensively.

* Well, I think it’s beastly,’ said one. ‘ I’m going in to
finish packing.’

Where, on this calm lime-scented last evening, was
Jennifer?

In the end there was no time to say good-bye to anyone.
Girls were scattering, flying about with labels and suitcases,
or with flat-irons to press the frocks they were to wear in
May Week.

May Week had been fun last year: five nights’ dancing
on end, with Jennifer and a young cousin of hers at Trinity,
and a boy in the Navy. This year it had not seemed worth
while to accept invitations.

While Judith was engaged in strapping her boxes and
throwing the accumulated rubbish of three years out of
drawers and cupboards into a heap on the floor, a maid came
smiling and said a gentleman was waiting downstairs.

It was Martin.

c Martin! Oh, my dear! 9

* I came on the chance, Judith. I motored up to see a

DUSTY ANSWER

214

man who’s going abroad. Are you — are you staying up for
May Week? ’

* No, Martin. I’m catching a train in about two hours
and going straight home.’

€ Really home, do you mean? Next door to us? ’

‘ Yes. Thank Heaven. It’s not let any more. Mother
and I will be there part of the summer anyway. Will you
— will any of you be there? ’

c Mariella’s down there now, with the boy. And Roddy
and I are going for a bit. In fact I’m going to-day —
motoring. That’s what I came for — to see if you’d care
to motor back with me.’

* Drive home? Oh, how marvellous! You are an angel,
Martin, to think of me.’

He was as shy as ever, bending his head as he talked to
her. Observing him she thought that she herself had grown
up. The loss of Jennifer had given her a kind of self-as-
surance and maturity of manner, a staidness. For the first
time she was seeing Martin from an entirely detached and
unromantic angle, and she thought: “Then this is how I
shall see Roddy. He won’t confuse and entangle me any
more. All that sort of thing is over for me.”

c It’s very nice to see you again, Judith. It’s ages since
. . . You look a bit thin, don’t you? ’

c It’s those miserable exams, Martin. I did work so hard
.... I don’t know why.’
i Oh! You shouldn’t have.’

He seemed quite overcome.

Dear Martin! ... In some corner of her heart a
weight was lifting . . . Jennifer was suddenly remote.

‘ Wait for me, Martin . . . I’ll be ready in a quarter
of an hour.’

She had not said good-bye to Mabel. She had been
dreading that last duty, ... No time now, thank heaven,
for anything prolonged. . . . Simplest to write a little
note and tell someone to stick it in her door.

She wrote:

DUSTY ANSWER

215

Dear Mabel,

‘ I have been called for unexpectedly in a car. I have
only ten minutes to finish packing and do all the last things.
I knocked on your door a little while ago but got no answer.’

She hesitated. Was it too gross? It w,<s; but it must
stand now ; it could not be crossed out.

c And now I’m afraid I haven’t a minute to try and find
you. I’m dreadfully sorry not to see you t > say good-bye,
Mabel. Won’t it be sad when next October comes to think
we shan’t all be meeting again? You must write and tell
me what happens to you, and I will write to you. I dare
say we shall see each other again. You must let me know

if you ever come my way ’ That must stand too. . . .

What else? . . . Results would be out to-morrow — Better
not to refer to them; for Mabel had certainly failed. She
had not been able to remember anything in the end. The
last three days she had given in one of two sheets of paper
blank save for a few uncertain lines.

She finished:

‘ I do hope you are going to get a good long rest. You
do need it. You worked so marvellously. Nobody ever
could have worked harder. We’ve all been so sorry for you
feeling so ill during tripos week. It was terribly hard luck.

Good-bye and love from

Judith.’

Nothing could be added — There was nothing more to be
said. Mabel’s face this last week came before her, blank,
haggard, still watching her from moribund eyes, and she dis-
missed it. She had thought she would have to kiss Mabel
good-bye: and now she would not have to.

She must be quick now, for Martin.

The car turned out of the drive and took the dusty road.

Almost she forgot to look back to see the last of those red
walls.

DUSTY ANSWER

21 6

€ Fm saying good-bye to it, Martin. Ugh! I hate it.
I love it.*

The poplars seemed to grow all in a moment and hide it.
It was gone.

c Well, Martin, how are you? What’s been happening
to everybody? How are they all? *

■ She was slipping back, she was slipping back.

They left Cambridge behind them, and she tried to recall
it, to make it come before her eyes, and could not. The
dream of wake, the dream of sleep — which had it been?

She wondered if she would ever remember it again.

Yesterday Martin had been standing with her under the
cherry tree.

Now he was telling her about his home in Hampshire.
He acted as estate agent for his mother now that his father
was dead. She must really come and stay with them and
meet his mother. He was perfectly happy farming his own
land: he never wanted to do anything else. He was improv-
ing the fishing and shooting: they had just bought a bit of
land they had been after for two years: half a mile more
river and a biggish wood. Forestry was the most fascinating
subject: he was going to take it up more seriously. Martin’s
life seemed very happy, very ordered, very clear and useful.
He knew what he wanted.

The cousins had all been scattered this last year or so.
Mariella had been working with a woman vet. in London.
She had spent most of last summer at his home because she
had been hard up and obliged to let the house on the river.
Peter had been there too. He seemed a nice enough little
chap, but nervy. He had a nursery governess now, and
Mariella seemed to think more about her dogs than him.
At least that was the impression she gave. Mariella, so
Martin $aid, had not changed at all.

Julian he had scarcely seen. He thought he wrote about
music for one or two weeklies, but he didn’t know which.
Also he had heard that he was writing a ballet, or an opera
or something; but he did not suppose it was serious. He had

DUSTY ANSWER 2IJ

developed asthma since the war, poor chap, aid he spent all
the winter abroad and sometimes the summer too.

And Roddy. Oh, Roddy seemed to be m issing about in
Paris or in London nearly always, doing a ut of drawing
and modelling. Nobody could get him to do any work:
though last year he had done some sort of the itrical work in
Paris — designing some scenery or something — which had
been very successful. He was saying now that he would
like to go on the stage. Martin laughingly said he was
afraid Roddy was a bit of a waster. Anyway he was com-
ing for a week or so, and Judith would see him for herself.

At six o’clock in the evening they stopped before the front
door of her home. There, waiting to enfold her again, was
the garden. The air was sweet with the smell of roses and
syringa, the sun-flooded lawn stretched away towards the
river, and the herbaceous border was burning miraculously
with blue delphinium spires, white and yellow lilies, and
great poppies.

6 Good-bye, Martin. It’s been lovely. We’ll meet soon,
won’t we? Come and fetch me.’

She went into the cool and shadowed hall. There was
the old butler hastening forward to receive her; and her
mother’s voice came from the drawing-room saying softly:

* Is that my girl? ’

PART FOUR

PART FOUR

i

S HE was ready for the picnic. She wore a yellow linen
frock and a hat of brown straw, shajxsd like a poke
bonnet and trimmed with a beautiful yellow ribbon. It was
Mamma who tied the ribbon in a great bow : the loops fell
in the nape of her neck and the ends ran down between her
shoulder blades.

c Lovely young creature/ said Mamma dispassionately
observing her.

Judith had been home more than a week, and Mamma
was being charming. She had taken her to London to buy
frocks. They had stayed at Jules for a couple of nights,
and Mamma had ordered pretty clothes generously from her
own dressmaker. She had said at last in her curious, harsh
yet beautiful voice, with a shrug of her shoulders, as Judith
paraded before her in the fifteenth model:

‘ As you see, everything suits that child.’

And the dressmaker had solemnly agreed.

They had been together to a play, and to the opera; and
every morning and every night Judith sat on Mamma’s bed
and they chatted together with friendly politeness, almost
with ease.

She was a woman exquisitely dressed, manicured, pow-
dered and scented. Her face did not age, though the colour-
less cheeks were now a little hollowed, and the eyes sharper.
Her eyes were like blue diamonds, and she had an unkind
reddened mouth with long pointed corners. The bones of
her face were strong and sharp and delicate, and something
in the triangular outline, in the set of the eyes, the expression
of the lips, made you think of a cat.

She was elegant in mind as well as in person, capable,
quick-witted. Her conversation was acute and well-in-
formed over a wide field, — and men admired and delighted
in her. She had always, thought Judith, seemed to move

221

222

DUSTY ANSWER

surrounded by men who paid her compliments. She had no
women friends that you could remember. She remarked,
now and then, how much she disliked women; and Judith
had felt herself included in the condemnation. She had
never been pleased to have a daughter: only a handsome
son would have been any good to her. Her daughter had
discerned that far back in a childhood made overwise by
adoration of her.

There was scarcely anything about Mamma to remember:
nothing but a vague awestruck worshipful identification of
her with angels and the Virgin Mary.

There was one night when she had come in, dressed for a
dinner party, all in white, with something floating, rosy
and iridescent about her. The dfess had geraniums on it,
at breast, waist and hem, a bunch on one shoulder, and flow-
ing geranium-coloured ribbons. There were diamonds in
her fair cloud of hair. She bent over the cot, smiling se-
cretly with eyes and lips as if she were very pleased; and
Judith hid her face from that angelic presence; and neither
of them spoke a word. A man’s voice called: 4 Mildred! ’
from the door: not Papa.

4 Come in/ she said. 4 Here’s the child.’

Somebody tall and moustached came and stood beside
Mamma and looked down, making jokes and asking silly
questions, and laughing because she would neither answer
nor look at him.

4 Don’t be silly, Judith,’ said Mamma.

4 She hasn’t a look of you,’ said the man.

4 No, nothing of me at all.’ Her voice sounded bored.

4 Are you sorry ? ’

4 Fred isn’t.’

They. both laughed a little.

They stood leaning on the cot-rail in silence side by side,
and Judith’s hand stole out unnoticed and touched a geran-
ium. She gave, it a little pull and it slipped out of the bunch
into her hand.

DUSTY ANSWER 223

‘ Come then,* said Mamma; and then over her shoulder:
c Go to sleep, Judith.’

She would have been annoyed if she had noticed the
geranium. It was not real after all: it was made of pink
velvet. Judith hid it under her pillow.

Mamma slipped her hand into the man’s arm and floated
away.

That was the only vivid recollection of her left. The
children next door came close on the heels of the geranium-
frock in memory; and after that they, and not Mamma,
absorbed her passion. Mamma was more and more away,
or busy; and more and more obviously not interested in her
daughter. All life that was not playing next door, or alone
in the garden, was lessons and governesses. Mamma and
Papa were relentless about education.

They had dual personalities in Judith’s mind. There
were Mamma and Papa who loved each other, of course,
and loved their only daughter; and sometimes took her to the
seaside, and now and then to London for the pantomime.
Once or twice she went abroad with them; but on the many
occasions when they left her behind, they wrote her affec-
tionate letters which she dutifully replied to in French, so
that they might see how her French was progressing; and
they brought her back beautiful presents. Often when they
were at home they read aloud to her in the evenings.

The three were blent in a relationship of a romantic and
consoling sort, — an ideal relationship; but then Fred and
Mildred would take the place of Mamma and Papa, and
shatter the illusion. For they, alas, seemed made of stronger
and more enduring fibre: they were real: and they were not
often together: and when they were, there was often cold-
ness and now and then quarrelling. Life with Fred and
Mildred was neither comforting nor secure. Fred was quite
an elderly man, and terrifyingly silent and pre-occupied.
He read and wrote books, and had a few elderly friends.
Sometimes these would pause for a moment between their
long spaces of ignoring her; and, searching her face, would

224

DUSTY ANSWER

tell her she was growing up like her father. And, each
time, their voices, their faces, their words made an unknown
past spring up in her for a moment, rich with undreamed-of
vanished graces — and she would go away with an ache of
sadness. People loved Fred; Mildred they admired and de-
ferred to, but did not love. That was clear at an early
age, when Judith went walking with one or other of them
past the row of cottages at the top of the garden, and they
stopped to speak to the cottage people over the fences. The
cottage people had one sort of voice, look, reply for Fred;
and quite another for Mildred.

Judith grew up with a faint obscure resentment against
Mildred for the way she treated Fred, for her competence —
her dry, unmerciful, cynical success in dealing with the
world. Fred was not at home in the world: even less at
home, thought Judith, than she herself; but Mildred was
steeped in its wise unkindnesses. She did not seem to realize
that Fred needed to be looked after.

Then he died; and they became Mamma and Papa again.
Mamma had been gentle, tired-looking, and pale in her
black clothes, and dependent for a little while on Judith.
She had not spoken much of Papa; but she seemed engrossed
in sad contemplations, and her replies to letters spoke of
him with tenderness and pride.

But all that had not lasted long. After the first six
months she had not appeared to want Judith much during
vacations. She was always visiting, always travelling, al-
ways surrounded by flattering talkative men and bridge-
playing scented women; and she came only once for a few
hours to College during the whole three years. She had a
flat in Paris, with a little room for Judith; but she expected
Judith to lead her own life and to stay with her own friends,
or with the one aunt, Papa’s sister, for a part, at least, of
every vacation. Reading-parties, short visits to friends’
homes, long visits to the old literary maiden aunt in York-
shire, had absorbed the time. There had been one rapturous
summer month alone with Jennifer in a cottage in Corn-

DUSTY ANSWER

225

wall; but there had never been a visit to Jennifer’s home.
Her parents, she said, were too unpleasa it to be inflicted
upon anybody except herself ; and then onlv for brief spaces
and at rare intervals. Like Roddy, she appeared and van-
ished again, without a background, blazing mysteriously into
and out of ordinary life.

The hoped-for letter from Mariella, a king her to stay,
had never come. She had not seen Marie la since the sum-
mer of Papa’s death ; and had had no sign i rom her save one
little ill-expressed conventional letter of sympathy, sent, so
the writer said, from them all “ to tell you how dreadfully
we simpathise.” (But Martin had written a note on his own
account. )

The wandering vacations abroad and in England had be-
come a habit; and now, all at once, there was home again.
Mamma had come home, out of pure kindness and consid-
eration for Judith; for she did not love it, did not want to
live there, found it a heavy expense; had had, so she said,
several magnificent opportunities of selling it.

c But it seemed only fair you should have it, this summer
at any rate,’ she said. 4 1 know you feel romantic about it.’
She added, c I see no reason why we shouldn’t spend a very
pleasant summer together. You are very companionable —
quite well-read now and quite intelligent; and extremely
presentable, I will say. I do not intend you to stay with me
permanently. I should find it extremely tiresome to be
always dragging you about with me; and I daresay you’d
dislike it too. We are quite unsuited to being together for
long; we should only irritate each other. I thought you
might have made up your mind what you wanted to do by
now — ’ (Mamma’s remarks had generally a faint sting in
their tails) — , 6 however, since you haven’t, I look forward
to having you with me, till the winter at least. You can
decide then what you will do, and I will help you if I can.
Does this arrangement suit you ? ’

The arrangement promised to work admirably. It was a
step of considerable importance, thought Judith, that

226

DUSTY ANSWER

Mamma should want her at all. And even though they
never spoke intimately, they were never at a loss for topics:
there were books, people, plays, and clothes to discuss. And
Mamma seemed happy in the garden, reading or wandering
about; she admitted that she loved going out with a basket
and a pair of scissors to cut flowers for all the rooms.

Surely it was going to be possible at last to establish a
satisfactory relationship; to feel deep affection as well as
interest, admiration, and that curious pang and thrill of the
senses which her scent, her clothes, the texture of her skin
and hair gave you and had given you from babyhood.

Mamma finished tying the bow, remarked: c Well —
enjoy yourself/ in a half-amused, half-mocking voice; and
dismissed her to her picnic.

2

They were all collected at the front door as she came
down the drive: all except Roddy. They had ceased to hold
terror for her now, or anguish: she had grown up. She
could observe the tall group they made without a tremor.
What a way they had of all standing together, as if to pre-
vent a stranger from breaking in among them! But that
did not matter now. Since she had met them again, there
had been no approach to intimacy on either side, no signifi-
cant interchanges; and she had not minded, had not lain
awake feverish with doubt and longing. She was equal to
them now. Her heart was in a stupor or dead; and it
seemed as if they were never going to disturb her any more.

Mariella, Julian, Martin; but no Roddy. . , .

Julian had come down for the day. He was more cadav-
erous than ever. His face was composed of furrows, pro-
jections, and hollows, with eyes blazing far back in his head.
A lock of his thick brown hair had turned white. He wore
elegant white flannel trousers and an apricot-coloured shirt
of softest silk; and he made Martin, in blue cotton shirt and
old grey flannels, look rustic and unkempt.

DUSTY ANSWER 22J

* Pile in/ said Martin. c Mariella, I em } t let you drive
my new car. You do understand, don’t you, angel? ’

c I’m not at all a good driver/ said Mariella, smiling
vaguely round upon them all. ‘I smashed Martin’s car to
pieces last year, didn’t I, Martin? I ran it into a wall. He
was awfully nice about it.’

c He’s an awfully nice man/ said Julian, putting his hand
on Martin’s shoulder.

Martin was the only one who ever received obvious marks
of affection from the rest. They all treated him in the
same way — with a sort of teasing tenderness.

< Judith, will you come in front with me? And Mariella
and Julian, you go there. ... Yes, that’s right. Will
you be comfortable? Are you all quite happy? ’ Martin
was terribly anxious lest there should be a hitch. Everyone
had got to enjoy the picnic.

c Is the food in? And the drink? Who’s got the opener?
Oh, I have. Mariella, remember that this is Julian’s Day in
the Country and don’t sit there and never open your mouth,
but point out objects of interest as we go along, and any
country sight or sound you happen to notice. Are we ready
then? To Monk’s Water, isn’t it? ’

The car swooped up the drive.

c Is Martin safe?/ cried Julian, clinging to Mariella.
* I don’t believe he’s safe. If he goes fast I shall jump out.
Oh, let’s stay at home and have a picnic in the garden. Don’t
let’s go away from this nice house and see objects of interest.
I didn’t mean it when I suggested it. I never wanted to.
Oh, why can’t you ever see a joke any of you? Oh! . . .’

He subsided with a groan and shut his eyes as Martin
swung round the corner and out on to the road. Mariella
was giggling like a little girl, Martin was grinning, every-
body was in the proper picnic mood. But where was Roddy?

* Martin, what’s happened to Roddy? ’

c Oh, Roddy/ said Martin. c Poor old Roddy’s got a
headache.’

* A headache? ’ Something leapt painfully in her.

228

DUSTY ANSWER

i Yes. We left him lying down. The idiot would play
tennis all yesterday in the broiling sun without a h»t, and
the consequence is a touch of the sun I suppose. He kept me
awake most of the night shivering and warning me he was
going to be sick. He looked awful at breakfast I must say,
— bright yellow; so we gave him an aspirin and put him on
the sofa and left him/

‘Left him, Martin? But oughtn’t someone to have
stayed with him? ’

‘ O Lord, no. He’ll sleep it off and be all right to-
morrow. His temper was his worst trouble, so we thought
we’d keep away.’

Maftin laughed cheerfully, as if he were amused about
Roddy’s headache. How cruel, how callous people were!
They called themselves his friends 'and they left him ill and
alone, and went off to enjoy themselves. He might get
worse during the day: he might be sickening for a serious
illness.

Roddy’s absence and his headache mattered terribly.
She realized suddenly that it was chiefly because of seeing
him that she had looked forward to the picnic; that she had
hoped to watch him, to talk to him; that she had had a pang
of dismay at his absence from the group by the door; that
she had been secretly alert for his coming, in a fever for
6ome mention of him until the very moment of starting; and
that then a weight had descended; and that now the day was
utterly ruined.

After all, was she going to be obliged to live, to feel, to
want again?

Roddy was lying in the deserted house, on the red sitting-
room sofa, with the blinds down. His forehead and closed
eyes were contracted with his headache. He tossed his head
and buried it in the cushions; and his hair got ruffled, and
the cushions became more and more uncomfortable. He
swore. You came in on tip-toe and knelt down beside him.

‘ Roddy, I’ve come to see you,’ you whispered.

‘ Oh, Judy, I’ve got such a headache and nobody cares/

DUSTY ANSWER 229

* Darling, I care. I’m so terribly sorry; I’ve come to
make irbetter.’

You stroked his forehead with cool fingers, smoothed his
pillows, gave him a drink and told him to lie still.

c That’s better. Thank you, Judy. Do stay with me.’

It was bliss looking after him. He had ceased to with-
draw himself and be proud: he was utterly dependent. You
bent and kissed his forehead. . . .

Martin broke in upon her dream, saying : c Quite com-
fortable, Judith? ’

And after he had adjusted the wind-screen, explained to
her some of the devices on the dash-board, looked round to
see that the others were all right, he addressed himself with
satisfaction to his driving again, resuming his one-sided
muttered conversations with his car and with passers-by.

c Now, now, come along, old lady . . , that’s right.
. . . What’s the matter with you? Got a pain? . . .
Well done, old girl.’ . . . 1 Now, my dear sir, what are
you up to? . . . Put out your hand, Madam, before you
turn corners like that. . . . Look out, you little brutes,
spinning tops in the road. Lucky for you I didn’t run you
clear over. . . . Oh, so you think you can race me, do you?
Well, try, that’s all.’

As a variant he read the signposts aloud.

Judith watched the deep-golden, dark-shadowed country
slip by: its woods and fields wore a sullen empty look.

They reached their destination at tea-time, and walked
down the steep slope to the edge of Monk’s Water.

Bracken and long grass came pouring from the top of the
hill to the very bank of the stream; and the beech-trunks
rose up from that soft, swirling blue-green cascade, up and
up, as far as eye could see. They sprang up clear from their
lovely symmetrical pattern of naked roots and climbed the
air in one long pure lift and flow, or in a lightly twisting
spiral. Ardently they soared, column after smooth grey-
green column, lightly balancing on their roots, gathering
their power, sweeping it upwards for the final high break-

DUSTY ANSWER

23 °

ing of the boughs. The strong outflung whirl of the snaky
boughs was lost at last in a fountain of foliage. The bright
spray wove closely and shut out the sky; but the sun pierced
it and lay beneath it in pools of dappled green light.

The smell of bracken was on the air, and the little
Monk’s Water slipped past in front of them, brown and
clear, singing over its shallows, hiding beneath its over-
hanging greenery.

4 This is where I once found a new kind of beetle,’ said
Julian, looking round him with pleasure.

4 I shall bathe after tea,’ said Mariella. 4 Boys, we must
all bathe. I rather wish I’d brought Peter now. Don’t you,
Julian? ’ She looked at him uncertainly.

4 Well, I told you to, didn’t I? You said he’d got to'
stay with his governess,’ he said,' in an unkind voice.

4 Never mind, Mariella,’ said Martin quickly. 4 I think
you were right not to bring him. He’d probably have found
it very tiring, a long expedition like this.’

4 That’s what I thought,’ she said, agreeing with a sort
of pathetic childish complacence.

Judith remembered once again, with a pang of amaze-
ment, that Mariella was a mother.

4 What about tea? ’ said Martin. 4 God, I do hope noth-
ing’s been forgotten.’

He opened the picnic basket and searched eagerly among
its contents until he found a napkin ful of raw tomatoes and
lettuce.

Judith smiled at him suddenly. Whoever changed, Mar-
tin remained unchanged. He had always been, was now,
and would be till he died, kindly, greedy and comforting.
He would always eat raw vegetables and smell very faintly
of healthy sweat, and ask nothing much of life save that the
people he was fond of should be cheerful.

He caught the smile and answered it swiftly, radiantly.

They ate sandwiches, fruit and cake; and the flies, gnats,
mosquitoes and midges came in murmurous clouds around
them; and Julian started to lose his temper.

DUSTY ANSWER

231

4 Smoke, all of you, smoke! Don’t stop for a moment! ’
he shouted. 4 My God, we shall all be devoured. Now
you know what the Insect Age will be like. Now you see
to what end you’ve been helping to produce the next genera-
tion, Mariella: to battle with insects and to b> defeated.’

They lit cigarettes and frenziedly puffed moke into the
air until the main body of the cloud died awaw

4 Now please may we go home? ’ he said plaintively. And
all at once Judith was reminded of Charlie as a small boy,
difficult, petulant, imperious, and yet all the time half
laughing at himself in a way that disarmed rebuke: as who
should say : c I know I’m being a beast and I will be a beast,
as long as I like; but you mustn’t mind and you mustn’t take
me seriously.’

Julian went on:

4 Let’s all go home and have a nice quiet game of some-
thing in the billiard room. Oh, I do hate outdoors so. I
do hate the country.’

Martin looked distressed.

4 You’re very ungrateful,’ said Mariella. 4 It was Mar-
tin’s treat for you.’ She took Martin’s hand and patted it.

4 Because you said you remembered coming here once
when you were a boy and finding a new insect, and how
you’d always wanted to come back,’ explained Martin.

4 Oh, my accursed sentimentality! I wanted to bring
back the days when I was a carefree beetle-hunter. Weren't
there any flies then? Or didn’t one notice them? ’

4 I remember one of the beetle-walks when I went with
you,’ said Judith. 4 We came back with our legs and arms
swollen up like balloons.’

4 Do you remember that? ’ He sat up and smiled at her.
4 Did we go on beetle-walks together ? ’

c Yes.’ She blushed. 4 Sometimes. I was very proud
when you took me.’

He laughed delightedly.

4 1 believe I remember. You were a peculiar child.

DUSTY ANSWER

232

What else did we do when we were young? Can you re-
member? ’

‘ I remember a lot.’

‘ Oh, do tell us/

She shook her head.

‘ What were we like? Who was the nicest? Martin of
course: you needn’t answer that. But who was the most
attractive? Which did you like best? ’

‘ If you can’t remember I shan’t remind you/

‘ Oh, I believe it was me! ’ cried Julian; ‘ I’m almost
sure it was. Haven’t I always been your favourite? ’

She laughed teasingly in his face.

‘Well, I’m sure I deserved to be,’ he said. ‘You were
my favourite anyway. Absolutely my favourite woman.
You always have been. . . . Have we changed very
much? ’

‘ No. Very little/

‘ Which of us has changed most? ’

Judith paused a moment and then answered: ‘ Mariella/
And directly she had said it she realized afresh how true
it was: too true to have been so lightly spoken. Mariella
had changed indeed.

Her smile, and Julian’s, faded abruptly.

‘Oh, have I? ’ she said, looking away embarrassed.

‘ I don’t think Mariella’s changed a bit,’ said Martin
'lyith surprise.

c Ah, well,’ said Julian, coming out of a deep musing, ‘ I
feel changed, Heaven knows. . . • Now I shall have a
short sleep, my children, and then I am at your disposal for
a jolly game of tag. Judith has, as usual, cured me of most
of my bad temper, and slumber will complete the process.
Judith, angel, you’ll stay by me, won’t you, and wave ciga-
rettes? ,. . . Go away, chaps. Judith and I are going to
converse until I fall asleep. Remember I haven’t seen her
for three years/

‘ I’m going to look for a place to bathe,’ said Martin.
‘ Mariella, will you come? 9

BUSTY ANSWER

233

* Yes.’ She held out her hands to him, giving him her
sweet, small smile of the lips. He pulled her up on to her
feet and they started to walk away.

‘ Til come and find you/ called Judith. ‘ I want to bathe
too.*

Martin turned eagerly.

* There are one or two pools somewhere t own this way/
he said. 6 Will you follow us? ’

c Yes/

* Good/

He waved and she waved back; and they were lost round
the corner.

Julian lay down in the shade of an elder bush, lit another
cigarette, and looked at Judith with bright appraising eyes.

c Well, Judith? ’ he said, and smiled. And as of old the
smile transfigured the whole harsh face with beauty.

c Well, Julian? What have you been doing with your-
self? 9

c Nothing, nothing/

€ You’re happier than you were last time I saw you/
c What makes you say that ? ’

She hesitated.

1 Your — acting is much more natural/

He laughed and made a face at her.
c Doesn’t my elegant and elaborate window-dressing daz-
zle you? Well, never mind. It never did, did it? And I
never minded. You’re the only woman I’ve never been able
to deceive to whom I have remained consistently attached/
c Are there many you’ve been able to deceive, Julian? ’
He paused.

c There are some who have loved me/ he said. € So they
must have been deceived/

c You think if they hadn’t been they couldn’t have loved
you? 9

He nodded.

‘Ah, I don’t believe that. Nor do you/ She sighed.
* It’s a thing I never would have believed , . . how; one

DUSTY ANSWER

234

can go on loving a person one knows to be — cruel and selfish
and indifferent/

Whom did she have in mind, — she wondered as she said
it. That was not Jennifer, surely: surely not Roddy?

4 Not/ she added quickly, c that you’re any of those
things. I can’t allow you the satisfaction of thinking so/

‘ I’m all of them,’ he said:

. . bloody y

Luxurious y avaricious y false y deceitful y
Sudden, malicious y smacking of every sin
That has a name . . ,

*

And that reminds me, Judy, I hear you acquitted yourself
with supreme distinction in your tripos. I’m very glad —
very proud to know you/

4 It hasn’t given me much satisfaction/

4 Now, now! Less of that/

4 Oh, it’s true. I’m not being modest/ She turned away
from him and said: 4 1 worked very very hard. I thought
of nothing but work, because I didn’t have anything else —
particularly pleasant — to think about. One doesn’t much
value that sort of success/

There was a silence.

4 And I suppose,’ said Julian, 4 that’s all I’m to be told
about it/

She shrugged her shoulders.

* Oh, there’s nothing,’ she said. 4 Just that/

4 Nobody ever will confide in me/ he complained. 4 I
don’t know why. I’m quite madly interested — especially
in love affairs. I suppose my face puts them off.’

She laughed. . . . No, nobody would confide in Julian.
He would be too clear-sighted, too scientifically interested,
too cold and reasonable. He would give such good advice
and so much of it. People only wanted a muddle-headed
outpouring of sympathy.

He went on:

DUSTY ANSWER 235

‘ It’s far too long since I last saw you. Why didn’t I come
to see you at College? Or write to you? I meant to.’

‘Why not indeed? ... Because you forgot about me.’

‘I never forgot about you, Judy. You \*ere always in
the back of my mind. But life was very fulL . . . And I
wanted to wait.’

He gave her a quick glance, whose meaning she did not
pause to interpret. She said hurriedly:

€ I am glad life was full. You have been happy, haven’t
you? Tell me about these three years.’

‘ They haven’t been — outwardly — dramatic,’ he said
with a smile. ‘ It’s been ill-health, and again ill-health
for me.’

‘ Oh, poor Julian! ’ She took up his hand and pressed it
for a moment; and her eyes started with tears. She had
forgotten the asthma which had hollowed his always hollow
cheeks, ploughed deeper the lines about the mouth, lifted
and bowed the always high stooping shoulders.

‘ It’s all right,’ he said rather awkwardly. ‘ It’s given
me a good excuse for never doing anything I didn’t want
to do. These years since the war have been an uninter-
rupted succession of self-indulgences. I was happy in a way
at Oxford. But I only stayed a year. It didn’t do really.
The locust-eaten years behind me were too strong. I
couldn’t work, I couldn’t play. I was too old altogether.
But the gentleness of people, the peace, the beauty! — all
that was very comforting. I took to my music again, a
little. . . . But, as I say, it wasn’t any good trying to re-
capture what I had once found there. And then of course
the climate did me in. So I came down, — a physical wreck,
but more or less sane again. Since then I have been in
France, Switzerland, Austria — all over Europe. I have
composed a ballet which will never be performed. I have
written three songs. I have contributed pseudo-highbrow
criticism of modern music to several periodicals. I have
listened — oh, listened very happily to a great deal of music
in a great many countries. I have had a Russian mistress,

DUSTY ANSWER

236

and a French and an Austrian, I think that was all/ He
gave her a quick look as if to see what effect this announce-
ment had upon her; but her face remained unmoved.
Julian’s passions had always been an uninteresting if not dis-
tasteful subject for speculation. ‘ And I got tired of them
all and treated them monstrously and left them. They
seemed to me quite insupportable after a bit — so stupid. I
have tried in vain to be cured of asthma at the inept hands
of countless doctors. I have read a lot — and talked more, as
you may guess. I have spent and still spend much time look-
ing for someone to whom I might attach myself perma-
nently. But that of course is the most tiresome romantic
folly. Nobody could love me for long: I know that well.
And I daresay I myself am incapable of anything except a
little passing lust. In short, Judy, you see in me what is
known as a waster. It’s in the family I’m afraid. Roddy’s
another. Charlie was designed for one from birth. . . .
But he’d have been a happy one, poor boy. . . . Whereas
my conscience pricks.’ He rolled over on the grass to look
at Judith, lazily, laughingly. ‘ That’s all/ he said. c Now
it’s your turn.’

c No, no. Go to sleep. I’ve nothing to tell you.’

* The mosquitoes have all disappeared/ he said. ‘ Why?
Perhaps I’d better take the opportunity — I shall be so
charming when I wake up again. Thank you, Judith.
You’ve done me good.’ He shut his eyes; and re-opened
them to say: c I told you you were always in the back of my
mind. It’s true. Always.’ He took her hand. c Judith,
am I going to be allowed to know you at last?, ’

1 Oh yes, Julian, of course.’

c Hum — I wonder.’

He was staring at her with intense inquiry and concen-
tration; but she turned her eyes away. She could not feel
that the matter was of much importance.

c We’re going to see each other a lot? ’

* As much as you like.’

c What are your plans? ’

DUSTY ANSWER

237

c Pm here till the end of July. Then 1 go abroad with
Mamma. To France. To Vichy part o i the time. She
will believe the cure does her good/

‘ I shall come and find you in France I shall come
to Vichy and take you away from Mamma I do better in
France. You might find me quite a plea ant companion.
There’s so much I should like to shew you, — do with you.
Shall I come? ’

‘ Oh yes, Julian. Do.’

‘ And you’d talk to me? ’

She nodded.

c In the end,’ he said, watching her intently, c I believe
you will ... I told you I could wait.’

He relinquished her hand, and shut his eyes.

She got up and sprang away from him down the bank.

The afternoon was breathless with a thundery heat. The
fern-clad slopes were sculptured and glittering cascades.
Monk’s Water hid between its shady banks. She followed
its twisting course, looking ahead of her for the blue of
Martin’s shirt, the white of Mariella’s linen frock.

Roddy was a waster. ... It was in the family. . . .
Roddy was no good, he was a waster. Perhaps, like Julian,
he had mistresses: a French, an Austrian, a Russian —
countless mistresses. Perhaps that was an integral part of
being a waster. . . .

She came round a sharp corner, and saw, through the
elder bushes, a whitish form in the water. It straightened
itself swiftly, alert at the sound of her footsteps.

‘Judy? 5 called a voice uncertainly — Mariella’s voice.

Judith parted the elder bushes and looked through: and
there was Mariella standing naked in midstream with clear
brown water up to her knees.

‘ Goodness, I’m glad it’s you ! ’ she cried happily. * I
thought it might be someone else. Come on in, Judy. It’s
so lovely/

She stood in the full sunlight, her arms lifted and laid

DUSTY ANSWER

238

across her forehead to shade her eyes, her lips laughing. Her
tall body glowed in the glowing air, narrow of hip, breast-
less almost, with faint, long young-looking curves; the
whole outline smooth and very firm in spite of its slender-
ness. Her voice vibrated gaily, excitedly. She was happy.

‘ We took oflf our shoes and stockings/ she called, ‘ and
waded down till we found this pool. Martin said he thought
he remembered a place where it got deeper, and he was
right, wasn’t he? It’s not very deep, but still you can swim
round. The water’s full of tiny trout. I’ve been watching
them. Martin’s bathing a little further down in another
pool. % I’ve left my clothes under that bush. You leave
yours there too and come on in.’

Judith stripped and waded out to join her.

i This is the sort of bathing I love,’ she went on. c Noth-
ing on and not very much water. You know, it’s funny, I
never could learn to swim properly; I don’t know why.
The boys used to laugh at me so because I always sank and
had to be rescued. I gave it up in the end.’

It was the first time since childhood, thought Judith, that
they two had been alone together. How deep was the dif-
ference in them? Mariclla, naked, with her childish curly
head and her unself-conscious body looked much the same
now as she had looked that evening long ago when Judith
had stayed the night with her, and they had had their eve-
ning bath together. And yet, a little while ago, it had
seemed so certain that Mariella was profoundly changed: in
the set of her face especially, — in the grown-up expression
of reserve and sadness, — the whole look of a woman whose
countenance has started to assume the cast it will wear in
middle age. But now, alight and laughing in sun and
water, it had once more the blank clearness and candour of
her childhood.

Mariella splashed the water, hummed a little tuneless
tune, laughed when a stone gave way beneath her foot and
threw her headlong into the stream; and the bathing days
with Jennifer returned to Judith with a pang. The body

DUSTY ANSWER

*39

beside her now was like Jennifer’s in height, strength, firm-
ness of mould: and yet how unlike! Tb s body seemed as
unimpassioned as the water which held it ^ and Jennifer’s
had held in every curve a mystery which c impelled the eyes
and the imagination.

c I really wish I’d brought Peter,’ sai«’ Mariella, stoop-
ing down to peer into the water. * He’d have been so ex-
cited about these little fishes. Martin and I have just made
him a little aquarium and he’s so thrilled ith it.’

c What fun, Mariella! It must be fun having him to
play with. He’s such a good age now.’

‘ Well, he really likes playing by himself best,’ she said,
looking faintly troubled. ‘ He’s such a quiet queer little
boy.’

c Well, that’s much better for him than always having to
be amused, isn’t it? ’

6 Of course it is! ’ She cheered up. * He — I s’pose it’s
him being an only child and me being fairly busy — and then
I do think it’s much better for a child to learn to play by
himself, don’t you? ’ She echoed Judith’s words compla-
cently, as if they sprang from her own original and pro-
found conviction.

After a pause she went on reflectively:

c That governess of his is a very strict person. She says
she must have entire charge of him.’

* She’s new, isn’t she ? ’

c Quite new.’ Then gravely, like a child pretending to
be grown up: * 1 thought perhaps I might sack her. I’m
not altogether satisfied with her.’

She seemed to be waiting to be encouraged in her des-
perate plan.

c But why, Mariella? ’

She hesitated, flushing.

‘ Well, she’s so frightfully superior,’ she said at last,
looking apologetic, a little sheepish. c I do hate bossy people,
do you? ’ Her eyes sought Judith’s with a flicker of appeal.

* I should think I do.’

240

DUSTY ANSWER

c Well, that’s what it is,’ she said with relief.

Judith took her arm and patted it, saying laughingly:
c Mariella, you’re afraid of her, I do believe! You know
you’d never dare sack her. Shall I come and do it for you? ’

4 Well ’ — Mariella dropped her voice and said in an
embarrassed confiding way, 4 She simply doesn’t take any
notice of me — absolutely none. His own mother! I really

sometimes wonder if . . . Do you suppose ’ She

stopped, and a faint flush suffused her whole face.

‘ What, Mariella? ’ said Judith softly.

4 Well, I sometimes wonder if Julian could possibly have
told |jer I — I don’t know how to look after him.’

She stooped again over the water, and her curls fell for-
ward, hiding her face.

4 Oh no, Mariella! He couldn’t. . . . He’d never do a
thing like that.’

But was it not more than possible ?

4 Well p’raps not. . . . But he might, you know. . . .’
She picked pebbles out of the water, her face still hidden.
4 He never did think I was much good at looking after Peter.
You see, the thing is I -ought to be very grateful to him
really. . . .’

‘Why, Mariella? ’ asked Judith. To herself she said:
4 In another minute I shall get to know Mariella : } and she
almost held her breath to listen, waiting for the moment of
revelation, and fearful lest a word or movement of hers
should alarm the speaker, close her lips suddenly, and for
ever.

* Well, he’s very helpful about Peter.’ Still she picked
pebbles from the stream and threw them away again. She
went on as if with an effort: 4 The thing is, you see, he got
that governess for Peter, interviewed her and everything.
Isn’t he^funny? He said poor old Pinkey — you remember
her — wasn’t good for him and he must have somebody more
suitable for his nervous temperament. I’m afraid he has got
a very nervous temperament. I s’pose it’s being musical.
. . . He took simply terrific trouble to find that governess.

DUSTY ANSWER

241

I daresay she does manage nervous children well. Peter
seems very cheerful with her I must si.v. . . . And he
doesn’t wake up with one of his scream r,ig fits nearly so
often. ... So I can’t say anything, can 1 Julian always
will think he knows best. He always wa; an awful boss,
wasn’t he? ’ She raised her face to smile v Ith a suspicion of
roguishness.

c Yes, always, Mariella.’ Judith smiled back, eager to
encourage Mariella with a sense of shared imusement.

The stratagem was successful. Mariella swam a few
strokes to the bank, sat down there, splashing the water with
her feet, and said, more cheerfully: ‘ Of course it’s very
nice he takes such an interest.’

Judith came and sat beside her on the bank, and con-
tinued: < Where shall you send Peter to school? ’

Her face clouded over again, troubled and alarmed.

c I don’t know,’ she said. c I haven’t thought. I’m not
very good at that sort of thing. He’s so delicate and . . .
I suppose Julian will see about it. ... I think he’s got
some plans. ... Of course Peter isn’t quite like other
children because he’s so musical, Julian says. . . .’

There was a long silence. The sun had dried their wet
bodies, and they leisurely dressed again and continued to sit
on the bank side by side, watching the flow of the water.
The faintest ruffle of breeze had sprung up, and the sculp-
tured fern cascades were coming to life, stirring now and
then. The golden light on the beeches had become richer
and more tender.

‘ It must be very interesting to have a child,’ said Judith
at last.

c Oh, do you think so? Do you want one? ’

Judith nodded.

‘ I never wanted one.’ She smiled faintly. c I always
thought puppies so much nicer than babies.’

* But what did you feel when your baby was born, Mari-
clla? ’

She shook her head.

DUSTY ANSWER

242

c I can’t remember.’ Her lip quivered. c I didn’t feel
much. I was awfully ill and — there seemed so many
bothers going on. I didn’t see him for quite a long time and
then — Oh, I don’t know! He was such an ugly miserable
little baby and I simply couldn’t believe he was mine. It
didn’t seem as if it could possibly be true that I had a baby.
I just kept on thinking: What on earth am I to do with
him? Then the doctor told me he might not live. And
then I s’pose I suddenly wanted him to live.’

1 Yes. You loved him.’

c I s’pose so. ... I began to think of names for him.
. . . ^Vnd I thought after all it might be nice if he grew
up and — and stopped being pale and thin. But he never
has. Still we’re all more or les§ pasty-faced, aren’t we?
Then there was Julian . . . and I thought — Oh, I don’t
know. . . . Poor Grannie was dying and I took him to see
her. She was so happy because he’d been born ; because you

know she absolutely adored ’ She stopped, her high

unnatural little narrative voice failing abruptly.

The simplicity, the pathos, the unreality of her life! . . .
Judith felt the tears burn her lids as she remembered that
strange marriage, the deaths of Charlie and of the grand-
mother — the only woman who had ever in all her life pro-
tected, cared for and advised her — and realized in what
child-like bewilderment and dismay she had borne her child.

She had never talked at such length or with so obvious
a satisfaction in talking. For once, Mariella had things she
needed to say.

Judith put a hand lightly on hers as it lay on the grass.
It quivered a moment, startled, then lay still, and Mariella
turned her amazing eyes full on Judith. Sun and sky were
mirrored in them so that they swam with more than their
usual blind radiance, but the expression of her lips was
tremulously pleased and grateful. Soon she sighed and said:

1 I s’pose he'd have adored Peter too. He and Julian were
like that about children. I s’pose he’d have done everything
for him. He was looking forward awfully. . . . It’s a

DUSTY ANSWER 243

pity really Peter’s not more like him — in looks I mean — not
in ’ She checked herself.

Mariella was talking of Charlie: in a *mall, shy but un-
reluctant voice, she was talking of him: 'he was preparing
to say the things which it had seemed nev'er could be said.
In another few moments it would be posi ble to say gently:
c Mariella, why did you marry him? ’

She leaned her cheek on her elbow and continued:

‘ I don’t really understand children.’

c But later on, Mariella, when he’s older you’ll be so
happy with him, — doing things together. You’ll be such a
marvellously young mother for him.’

6 Oh, later on! ’ was all she said; and added: c I don’t
believe boys care much anyway about their mothers being
young.’

If Julian had heard her say that, so shrewdly, would he
not have been disconcerted?

Judith turned to her, opened her mouth to speak.

But then, as on another occasion, Martin burst in upon
the pregnant moment — coming round the corner with a
loud c Hullo! ’ — fresh, pink and cheerful from his bathe;
and Mariella rose from Judith’s side, her lips lifted lightly
to smile him an agreeable welcome, her whole customary
manner enfolding her in one instant.

c Hullo! ’ she called back. < Did you have a nice bathe?
We did, didn’t we, Judy?’ Empty little voice, with perhaps
a trace of relief in it. ... It was all over.

They went back to find Julian.

They slipped back towards home along the chalky roads
in an evening heavy with dark shadows.

Martin drove in silence, and Judith sat beside him. Per-
haps she would tell him to drive straight home without
bothering to drop her; and then they might invite her to
come in for a moment, and she would see Roddy — see for
herself how ill he was.

DUSTY ANSWER

244

Martin turned and looked at her suddenly, and said with
a nervous twitch of his mouth:

c It is such fun seeing you again.’

< Such fun, Martin.’

4 At Cambridge ’ He stopped.

‘ Yes, Martin? 5

c It was ghastly not seeing you oftener at Cambridge.’

c I know, Martin. It seemed so difficult with those dis-
gusting rules. It was hopeless trying to see one’s friends.’

c It wasn’t my fault we didn’t meet oftener,’ he stam-
mered out. 1 1 wanted to. I thought you were fed up with
me, so I kept away.’

* What made you think such a silly thing, Martin? ’

He hesitated, and flushed.

c Because I — didn’t get on — with your friends.’

She sighed.

‘You mean Jennifer? ’

* Well — yes.’

€ You didn’t like her, did you? ’

Jennifer had always been at her worst when Martin was
there.

c I — I couldn’t hit it off. . . . I — of course I could see
she was — very nice ... I could understand why you —
were so fond of her. . . .’ He floundered on, his eyes
fixed on the road in front of him, his foot gradually forget-
ting to press the accelerator. ‘ But you seemed — quite dif-
ferent when she was there ... at least you were different
to me. It felt as if we were strangers.’

She sighed again, and said patiently:

* I’m sorry, Martin.’

Impossible to try to explain to him. What he said was all
so true. Let him think what he liked: she was not respon-
sible to him for her behaviour, not obliged, as he seemed to
think, to ’treat him with consideration. Dull, dull, tiresome
Martin. No wonder he had roused a devil in Jennifer.

c Oh! ’ he said, overcome. 1 Good heavens, there’s nothing
for you to be sorry about. I wasn’t meaning to accuse you.’

DUSTY ANSWER 245

4 It sounded as if you were , 5 she said in an aggrieved
voice. It was an easy game, upsetting Martin.

c Oh, Judy, you know I wasn’t , 5 he said unhappily; and
in his agitation he completely forgot to accelerate, and the
car slowed down till she scarcely crawled.

4 Hey, sir! 5 shouted Julian from the ba< k. 4 May I ask
what you are up to, sir? Does the road belong to you, sir,
or does it not? 5

Martin made a grimace over his shoulder and drove on.

4 All I meant , 5 he said presently, very quietly, £ was that
I 5 d missed you awfully, and that I’m terribly glad I 5 ve —
I 5 ve met you again . 5

4 So am I, Martin. Honestly I am . 5

She was remorseful.

4 I’m going away to-morrow — must get back to the farm . 5
He swallowed hard. 4 I wonder if — I’d awfully like you to
meet my mother. Would it bore you frightfully to come
and stay? 5

4 It wouldn’t bore me one little bit. I’d love to meet your
mother . 5

4 Oh, good! 5 He beamed. 4 I’d love to show you my
home. It’s rather nice . 5

Mariella leaned over his shoulder to say:

4 Drive straight to the station, Martin. Julian will miss
his train if we don’t hurry . 5

In another ten minutes they were at the station.

4 We’ll come and see you off, Julian , 5 said Mariella.

4 I mustn’t wait , 5 said Judith. 4 Mamma’s having supper
early. I promised I’d be back. Good-bye and thank you
all very very much. Good-bye, Julian . 5

She held out her hand to him. He took it and elegantly
kissed it.

4 Au revotr , mademoiselle 9 he said. * Nous nous rever -
rons au mots d y A out . Sans faute y n y est ce fas ? 9

She nodded.

4 Alors au flat sir* . .

DUSTY ANSWER

246

He gave her one searching look, waved his hand and
disappeared into the booking-office.

Marietta, following him, turned back for a moment to
say in a small voice :

c Good-bye, Judith. I’ll see you again, shan’t I? ’

Her face was for once without its little smile. It was
composed and — yes — quite grown up: yes, it had turned into
one of those unnumbered women’s faces, masked with a
faint fixed perplexity and sadness: and, behind the mask,
not alive at all.

She turned to Martin who still lingered beside her.

* Then — if my mother writes to you? — ’ he said.

c Yes, Martin. I’ll come.’

‘You must come.’ ,

* I’d love to.’

To see one of the circle detached and against a separate
background of home and parents would be interesting:
though, alas, Martin’s father had died. It was he who had
been brother to Mariella’s mother, and to the father of
Julian and Charlie, and of Roddy. Martin’s mother was
quite external. . . . Still, there might be portraits, photo-
graphs, all sorts of family things. . . .

She detached her hand from his, and started to run.

The train was not even signalled yet. In five minutes she
could be with Roddy. She would make some excuse — say
she had left something. She could reckon on a clear quarter
of an hour at least in which to see him, tell him she was
sorry, tell him . . . and quickly go away again.

She knocked on the sitting-room door.

* Come in,* said a cross voice.

1 Roddy,* she said timidly, standing at the door. 4 I’ve
come to.see you. Just to ask how you are. Only for a min-
ute. Am I disturbing you? ’

€ Oh, come in, Judy.’ His voice was polite and surprised.

He was sitting at the writing-table. He wore no tie, and
his shirt was open at the neck; his sleeves were rolled up and

DUSTY ANSWER

247

his hair was standing on end. He looked tired: his face was
more sallow than usual, and his lips drooped. The sunlight
came into the room through the lowered red blinds, heavy
and dark, and as if with a sinister watchfulness. Values
were not normal in this queer house light. It altered the
character of the friendly and familiar room, and gave to the
lonely-looking figure of Roddy an unreal significance and
remoteness; gave it terror, almost, and strangeness. The
living light seemed to make the blood beat in time with its
own dark-blooded feverish pulse.

‘Nice of you to come, Judy.* His voice made him
utterly unapproachable. 4 How cool you look. Did you
enjoy your picnic? I should have thought it was much too
hot to be comfortable anywhere.’

4 It was horrid without you, Roddy.’

4 Nonsense. You didn’t miss me at all.’ His smile was
bland and cold.

4 Didn’t I? Didn’t I ? Roddy — it was all spoilt for me
when they told me you weren’t well. I couldn’t bear to
think of you alone with a headache on a day like this.’

£ Oh, the headache’s gone. It wasn’t much. My own
Stupid fault.’

4 Are you sure it’s gone? You don’t look very well.’

He laughed.

4 I’m all right. I can’t think why you should be so con-
cerned about me.’

He was not going to allow you the satisfaction of sym-
pathising with him.

4 Then there’s nothing I can do for you? ’

4 Nothing at all, thank you, Judith.’

He still sat in front of the writing-table, leaning his head
on his hand and looking at her with a curious hard expres-
sion. Presently he rubbed his eyes with an impatient ges-
ture, as if they hurt him; bent his head rather drearily and
started to draw figures on the blotter.

4 You oughtn’t to try to write if your eyes hurt you. You
ought to rest/

DUSTY ANSWER

248

< I have been resting.’ He jerked his head in the direction
of the old capacious nursery sofa, whose tumbled cushions
still bore the impress of his body. c I got sick of it. I had
some letters to write, so I thought I’d better get them done.
I’m going away to-morrow or the day after.’

c Back to Paris? ’

• No. To Scotland with my mother.’ His eyes twinkled
for a minute. c She thinks I need a holiday.’

To Scotland with his mother. Why did not he say, like
Martin: 6 1 want you to meet her? ’

She came and stood beside him.

i Well, I must go now.’ She could not keep the utter
wretchedness out of her voice. ‘ I only came to see how you
were.’ ,

‘ It was very sweet of you, Judy.’

His voice was all at once gentle and caressing. He took
her hand up lightly, and played with the fingers; and she
felt the old helplessness start to drown her.

‘ Well, it’s good-bye, I suppose, Roddy,’ she said very
low.

1 It looks like it, Judy.’

* Always, always going away. Aren’t you? ’

He smiled at her.

c I’m sorry I haven’t seen more of you, Judy. We
haven’t had any of our serious conversations this time, have
vve? ’

Oh, the charming mockery and indifference! . . . She
took her hand away and said briefly:

c No, we haven’t.’

This time there would be nothing new and delightful to
remember. Save for this present vain exchange of words,
they had scarcely spoken to one another. The evening when
they had all bathed together, the afternoon she had played
tennis with them, neither eyes nor voices had encountered
each other secretly, alone together. She had seen him
watching her now and then : that was all.

DUSTY ANSWER 249

‘ Last time we met/ he said, his eyes on her, ‘ we had a
very serious conversation/

‘ Ah, I thought you’d forgotten that/

She felt herself tremble slightly.

‘ No. No/ His fixed gaze never wavered from her
face; and she could not move. She looket; down and saw,
on the writing-table, a white square and th name Anthony
Baring, Esq., on it. Roddy had a delicate and graceful
hand-writing.

c There’s' the car/ he whispered.
c Oh, I must go/

c Come this way, through the garden door/

He got up and put his arm round her and led her towards
the door, clasping her close to him. The reddish light
pressed, whispering and furtive.

‘You kissed me last time/ he murmured. ‘Will you
kiss me again? ’

She swiftly kissed his cheek.

He laughed; then drew his breath in suddenly and
stopped laughing. Down came his stranger’s face to hers.
She felt his mouth hard, and her own terribly soft and yield-
ing. The pressure of his lips was painful, alarming, — a
contact never dreamed of. She drew back and saw, in the
mirror opposite, her own white-faced reflection, one hand to
its mouth.

‘ To-night/ he said very low, ‘ shall I come and fetch
you in the canoe? We’ll go down, down, — to the islands.
Just us two. Shall I come? *

She nodded, speechless.

‘ Late. Be waiting for me about eleven/ He added,
in his usual, careless voice: c Not unless it’s fine, of course.
There may be a thunderstorm/

She went out of the room, into gold deeps of light and the
evening shadows.

She came back into her own garden. The sinking sun
flooded the lawn. Its radiance was slit with long narrow

DUSTY ANSWER

250

shades, and the great chestnut trees piled themselves above it
in massed somnolence. The roses were open to the very
heart, fainting in their own fragrance; and around them the
dim lavender-hedges still bore white butterflies upon their
spear-tips. The weeping beech flowed downwards, a full
green fountain, whispering silkily. Forms, lights, colours
vibrated, burned, ached, leapt with excess of life. The
house was wide open at every door and window; and
Mamma, going up the steps with a basket of flowers, paused
and drew up the striped Venetian blind.

3

For hours, it seemed, they had not spoken a word. The
paddle fell now and again upon the water with a light mu-
sical clash, like the sound of the shattering of thinnest
crystal. Now and again the moving blade woke the water
to a rich and secret murmur; as if a voice half woke out
of sleep to speak a tender word; then swooned into sleep
again.

She saw his arm move and glimmer; his form was just
discernible in the stern of the boat, shoulders bowed for-
ward, head motionless. Once or twice he started to whistle
a fragment of tune, and then was silent again.

She lay among cushions in the bows, and watched the
dark yellow moon rise, bare of clouds, behind the poplar
trees. The night was heavy and still.

The canoe slipped down towards the islands. Then she
would move, if her limbs still remembered how to move: he
would give her a hand to help her out and they would stand
among the little willows and whisper together.

Mamma was fast asleep at home, her alien spirit lapped
in unconsciousness. Her dreams would not divine that her
daughter had stolen out to meet a lover.

And next door also they slept unawares, while one of
them broke from the circle and came alone to clasp a
stranger.

DUSTY ANSWER

251

The boat hissed suddenly among willows, and came to
rest against a shallow bank. The clustering thin light blades
of the willow-leaves fell over them as they stepped out, bit
them with infinitesimal teeth.

She followed him without will, or cons< ious movement,
through nettles and long grass, to a clearing among the
bushes, in the middle of the leafy little m* und which was
the island. In the old days they had often picnicked here,
and thought the minute patch of earth a whole world and
made themselves kings and queens of it. They had gathered
blackberries from these low bushes in the hot sun; and come
home again with purple mouths and fingers.

Now the little boy Roddy was this tall man whose shoul-
der touching hers was more bewildering than the moon-rise;
whose head above hers was a barrier blocking out the world.

They stood side by side. He turned to her and whispered:

4 Well, Judy? ’

‘ Oh, Roddy! . . /

‘ Judy, I’m going to say good-bye to you here.’ His voice
was low, grave, distinct.

‘ For a long time, Roddy? ’

She saw him nod his head; and she bowed her own and
began to sob, but without tears.

He murmured some low inarticulate exclamation, and
took her gently in his arms.

‘ Don’t cry, Judy. Don’t cry . . . Darling, don’t.’

The tenderness of his voice checked her in an instant.
His hand moved up and down her bare arm, lingering over
its curves, tracing the outline with a touch that made her
shiver.

‘ Lovely smooth arm/ he whispered. ‘ You are so lovely/

‘No.’

‘Yes. I think so. I’ve always thought so.’

‘ As long as you think so, then — that’s all I care about.
You — can have it all.’

‘Oh, Judy!’

Now the moon rose, clear at last above the tree tops, and

DUSTY ANSWER

25 2

gleamed strangely into the eyes bent upon her face. His lips
were smiling a faint fixed smile. His teeth glinted. The
two faces gazed at one another, floating wan upon darkness.

The web had broken. Roddy had shaken himself free
and come close at last. The whole of their past lives had led
them inevitably to this hour.

, c Oh, Roddy, I love your hair. . . / Her hand went up
and stroked it; and he shut his eyes. c I love your eyes.*

c I love you all — every bit of you.’

Breathless, sure of him at last, with a delicious last-min-
ute postponement of his embrace she moved away, softly
laughing.

4 Roddy, how much do you like me? This much? ,

She held out her hands, parting them slowly.

* More than that/

i This much? 9

He copied her, laughing eagerly but silently.

* This much ? y

He held his arms out wide. She hesitated a moment and
then came into them; and he was not laughing any more,
but covering her face and neck with kisses.

It was a quivering darkness of all the senses, warm,
melting, relentless, tender. This stranger was draining her
of power; but underneath, the springs of life welled up and
up with a strong new beat. He clung to her with all his
force as if he could never let her go. He was a stranger,
but she knew him and had known him always. She took
his caressing hands and held them on her breast. In that
moment he was her child; and she longed to lay his head
where his hands quietly lay. He drew deep breaths, and
now and then his rich voice murmured a broken word or
two.

She raised her head from his shoulder and gazed in pas-
sionate detail at his face.

c Speak, Roddy, speak/

He shook his head and smiled — a ghost of his former
smile, flickering on his lips alone. His half-shut eyes glit*

DUSTY ANSWER

*53

tcred as if with tears. In the moonlight she worshipped
his dark head and moon-blanched features. Gradually he
loosened his hold, threw his head back, and stood motionless,
arms hanging at his sides, his face an unconscious, sleeping
mask. If Roddy were to die young, this was how he would
look.

‘ Roddy — Roddy — Roddy — I love you — I love you — I
love you/

No answer. He stooped his head and fell to closer
kissing.

‘ Roddy — say ’

‘What do you want me to say? ’ he whispered. Again
the flickering smile.

‘ I love you, Roddy/

Ah, if he would whisper back those few words, there
would be peace for ever.

She laid her cheek against his, murmuring endearments.

‘ My dear, my darling, my little one, I love you. My
dear, I’ve always loved you. Did you know it? ’

He shook his head faintly.

‘ I love you too much, I’m afraid/

Oh, far too much, if she was to wait in vain for any re-
sponse save kisses. . . .

‘ No, Judy, no/ The words broke from him painfully.
‘ You must forget about me now. Kiss me and say good-
bye/

‘Why, oh, why? ’ She clutched him desperately.

‘ Fm going away/ he whispered.

‘ But you’ll come back? You’ll come back, Roddy? ’

He was silent, utterly silent.

‘ I can’t. I can’t,’ he said at last.

‘ I’ll wait, Roddy, I don’t care how long I wait. I shall
never want anyone else. I’ll wait years/ There was no
answer; and after a while she added in a small laboured
whisper: ‘ If you love me a little/

‘Oh! * He threw up his head with a sort of groan.
‘Yes. Yes. Yes/

DUSTY ANSWER

254

c You love me? ’

He must, he must say it.

i Yes, I love you/ The words came out on a groaning
breath. She put her lips on his, and stood silent, drinking
in her bliss.

He tossed his head suddenly, as if waking up.

' * Oh, Judy, we must go back, we must go back/

He sighed and sighed.

1 No. A little longer. We’ll talk a little before we go.
We must talk/

He laughed — a normal teasing laugh.

C *A little conversation,’ he said. ‘ You’re a tiger for
conversation, aren’t you? ’

c I don’t mind your laughing f at me/

They were going to laugh gaily at each other, with each
other, for ever.

He put his hand beneath her chin and turned her face up
to his.

4 Lovely Judy. Lovely dark eyes. . . . Oh, your mouth.
I’ve wanted to kiss it for years/

c Oh, Roddy, you can kiss it whenever you want to. I
love you to kiss me. All of me belongs to you/

He muttered a brief c Oh! ’ beneath his breath, and seized
her, clasped her wildly. She could neither move nor
breathe; her long hair broke from its last pins and fell
down her back, and he lifted her up and carried her beneath
the unstirring willow-trees.

He had brought her back home. Languorous and be-
mused she stepped out upon the bank in the breaking dawn,
and turned to look at him beneath her heavy lids. She could
not see him clearly, he seemed blurred, far away.

‘ Good-bye,’ he said briefly.

* I’ll see you before you go,’ she said mechanically.
Not that it really mattered now. Time was not any
more and he would be with her for ever.

He nodded; and then abruptly turned the canoe down

DUSTY ANSWER 2 $$

stream again: looked at her once, faintly smiled, waved his
hand an instant and went on.

She walked through the waiting, clear pale-coloured gar-
den, into the house, up to her bedroom; stared in the dim
glass at her strange face; sank into bed at last.

4

It was on the next evening that she awoke to the realiza-
tion that Roddy had not come — might not — certainly would
not now. He was going away. He, who always found self-
expression, explanations, so difficult, would be at a loss to
know what to say when he too woke up. He who never
made plans would be helpless when it came to making any
which should include her too in the future. Last night he
had been dumb, he had sighed and sighed, whispered inartic-
ulately: he would find it hard to be the first to break silence,
to endeavour to re-establish the balance of real life between
them. She would write him a letter, tell him all; yes, she
would tell him all. Her love for him need no longer be like
a half-shameful secret. If she posted a letter to-night, he
would get it to-morrow morning, just before he left.

She wrote:

Roddy, this is to say good-bye once more and to send
you all my love till we meet again. I do love you, indeed,
in every sort of way, and to any degree you can possibly
imagine; and beyond that more, more, more, unimagi-
nably. The more my love for you annihilates me, the more
it becomes a sense of inexhaustible power.

Do you love me, Roddy? Tell me again that you do;
and don’t think me importunate.

I am so wrapped round and rich in my thoughts of you
that at the moment I feel I can endure your absence. I
almost welcome it because it will give me time to sit alone,
and begin to realise my happiness. So that when you come
back — Oh, Roddy, come back soon!

DUSTY ANSWER

256

I have loved you ever since I first saw you when we were
little, I suppose, — only you, always you. Fm not likely
ever to stop loving you. Thank God I can tell you so at
last. Will you go on loving me? Am I to go on loving
you? Oh, but you won’t say no, after last night. If you
don’t want to be tied quite yet, I shall understand. I can
wait years quite happily, if you love me. Roddy, I am
yours. Last night I gave you what has always belonged to
you. But I can’t think about last night yet. It is too close
and tremendous and shattering. I gasp and nearly faint
when I try to recall it. I dissolve.

When I came back to my room in the dawn I stared and
stared at my face in the glass, wondering how it was I
could recognize it. How is it I, look the same, and move,
eat, speak, much as usual ?

Ought I to have been more coy, more reluctant last
night? Would it have been more fitting — would you
have respected me more? Was I too bold? Oh, this is
foolishness: I had no will but yours. But because I love
you so much I am a little fearful. So write to me quickly
and tell me what to think, feel, do. I shall dream till then.

There is so much more to tell you, and yet it is all the
same really. My darling, I love you!

Judy.

She posted it. Next morning she hurriedly dressed and
ran downstairs in the sudden expectation of finding a letter
from him; but there was none.

Now he would have got hers. . . . Now he would have
read it. . . . Now he would be walking to the
station. ...

She heard the train steam out; and doubt and sorrow came
like a cloud upon her; but only for a little while.

In the cool of the evening she wandered down to the river
and sat beside it dreaming. She dreamt happily of Jennifer.
She would be able to love Jennifer peacefully now, think of
her without that ache, see her again, perhaps, with all the

DUSTY ANSWER 257

old restlessness assuaged. Jennifer’s letter would surely
come soon now. . . .

If Roddy were to ask her to come away with him at once,
for ever, she would take just the copper bowl from her table
and spring to him, and leave all the rest of the past without
a pang.

Perhaps Roddy had written her a letter just before he had
gone away; and if so it might have come by the evening
post. She left the river and went to seek it.

Who could it be coming towards her down the little path-
way which led from the station to the bottom of the garden
and then on to the blue gate in the wall of the garden next
door? She stood still under the overhanging lilacs and may-
trees, her heart pounding, her limbs melting. It was Roddy,
in a white shirt and white flannels, — coming from the
station. He caught sight of her, seemed to hesitate, came on
till he was close to her; and she had the strangest feeling
that he intended to pass right by her as if he did not see her.
. . . What was the word for his face? Smooth: yes,
smooth as a stone. She had never before noticed what a
smooth face he had; but she could not see him clearly be-
cause of the beating of her pulses.

‘ Roddy!’

He lifted his eyebrows.

‘ Oh, hullo, Judith.’

€ I thought you’d gone away.’

€ I’m going to-morrow. A girl I know rang up this
morning to suggest coming down for the day, so I waited.
I’ve just seen her off.’

A girl he knew. . . . Roddy had always had this curi-
ous facility in the dealing of verbal wounds.

* I see. . . . How nice.’

A face smooth and cold as a stone. Not the faintest ex-
pression in it. Had he bidden the girl he knew good-bye
with a face like this? No, it had certainly been twinkling
and teasing then.

1 Well, I must get on.’ He looked up the path as if medi-

DUSTY ANSWER

258

taring immediate escape; then said, without looking at her,
and in a frozen voice: c I got a letter from you this morn-
ing.*

‘ Oh, you did get it? *

There could never have been a more foolish-sounding
bleat. In the ensuing silence she added feebly: ‘ Shall you
— ranswer it — some time ? ’

* I thought the best thing I could do was to leave it un-
answered/

< Oh. . . /

Because of course it had been so improper, so altogether
monstrous to write like that. . . .

€ Well/ she said. c I thought . . . I’m sorry.’

She ought to apologise to him,, because he had meant to
go away without saying anything, and she had come on him
unawares and spoilt his escape.

‘ I was very much surprised at the way you wrote,’ he
said.

* How do you mean, surprised, Roddy? ’ she said timidly.

She had known all along in the deepest layer of her con-
sciousness that something like this would happen. Per-
manent happiness had never been for her.

It was not much of a shock. In a moment that night was
a far, unreal memory.

* Well ’ — he hesitated. c If a man wants to ask a girl to
— marry him he generally asks her himself — do you see? ’

1 You mean — it was outrageous of me not to wait — to
write like that? 9

‘ I thought it a little odd/

€ Oh, but Roddy, surely — surely that’s one of those worn-
out conventions. . , . Surely a woman has a perfect right
to say she — loves a man — if she wants to — it’s simply a
question of having the courage. ... I can’t see why not.
. . . I’ve always believed one should. . . /

It was no good trying to expostulate, to bluff like that,
with his dead face confronting her. He would not be taken

DUSTY ANSWER

259

in by any such lying gallantries. How did one combat
people whose features never gave way by so much as a
quiver? She leaned against the wooden fence and tried to
fix her eyes upon the may-tree opposite. Very far, but clear,
she heard her mother at the other end of the garden, calling
her name: but that was another Judith.

c I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood me/ he said.

c Yes. I’ve misunderstood you. You see — this sort of
thing has never happened to me before and I thought . . .
when a person said . , , Why did you say ... I didn’t
know people said that without meaning it . . . I suppose
we must mean different things by it. That’s what it is.
Well. . . Her voice was terrible: a little panting whine.

4 I don’t know what you mean.’

Probably that was true : he had forgotten he had ever said:
4 I love you.’ She could not remind him; for in any case he
would not be affected. What were three little words? . . .
And after all, she had probably more or less forced him to
say them: she had wanted to hear them so much, she had
driven him to say them. Yes, he had groaned, and quickly
repeated them to keep her quiet, stop her mouth so that he
could go on kissing her. She said:

4 But why, Roddy, why did you take me out . . . behave
as you did . . . kiss me so — so. ... I don’t understand
why you bothered . . . why you seemed . . .’

He was silent. O God! If only he would wound and
wound with clean thrusts of truth, instead of standing there
mute, deaf.

4 Roddy, after all these years, these years we’ve known
each other, can’t you tell me the truth? We were good
friends once, weren’t we? ’

* Yes, I think so.’

4 Oh, I see! I see! And you could never feel like be-
ing — more than that.’

He shook his head,

4 1 see, Roddy.’ The pain was sharp now, hard to fight

260 dusty answer

down. c I sec. And you thought there had better be an end
• . . because you were never going to love me: and I
obviously — was it obviously? — was becoming more and
more — foolish — and tiresome. So you thought — you’d say
good-bye — like that — and then go away for good. Was
that it! ’

He passed a hand across his forehead: his first gesture.
Then he too was feeling, however slightly.

‘ I thought that was what you wanted: what you were
asking for/ he said.

‘ Oh, so you thought you’d oblige ’ No, no, not

sarcasm. She waited a moment and added: ‘I see. You
misunderstood me. I daresay it was quite natural. You
thought I wanted what you wanted — just a little — a little
passion — to round off a flirtation — and be done with it.
Well . . .’

The lane was so still that she could hear the dull beat of
oars in passing boats on the other side of the fence. The
evening had become very cold.

She gave a little laugh and said:

* I really am very sorry to make this fuss. It’s too laugh-
able that I should — I! ... I suppose you never dreamed
I — wasn’t used to this sort of thing — from men? 9

1 1 thought you knew pretty well what you were
about.’

‘And I didn’t! I didn’t! I was being deceived — like
any . . . Oh, it’s so vulgar! ’ She shut her eyes, laughing
weakly. ‘ That’s why you didn’t make your meaning
plainer, I suppose. You thought I was quite used to — that
sort of thing — kissing — just for a lark. Just for a lark,
Roddy — that was it, wasn’t it? And I got serious, and tried
to— to let you in for more. ... I tried to catch you.
Poor Roddy! But you’d never get let in, would you? You
know your own mind. You’re cautious. You’ll see — /
she waved her hand slightly, ‘ I’m not dangerous. I’ll never
bother you any more. And I’m very very sorry.’ She broke
down with a gasp, but did not weep.

DUSTY ANSWER 26 1

‘ I’m sorry, Judith. I apologise. I His voice had

now the faintest trace of emotion.

‘ Oh! 9 She controlled herself. ‘ Apologise! Have I
accused you? This is just another damned muddle. Pm
only trying to understand it.*

‘ 1 really think I had better go/ he said.

‘No! ’ She put out a hand and clutched his arm in
desperate protest. ‘Not yet, Roddy. Not for a moment.
Can’t we — O God! I wish I’d never written that letter.
Then there’d have been no need for all this. . . . You’d
have gone away and said nothing — and gradually I’d have
understood. I should have seen it all in its proper light.
Things would have somehow come right again, perhaps.
And now I suppose they never can. . . . Can they, Roddy,
can they? Oh, if they could! ’

How he was hating this scene ! It was a shame to prolong
it. He swallowed hard and said, rather nervously:

c Do you suppose you really meant — all you said in your
letter? ’

It was her chance. She must say it was all nonsense, that
letter, that it was written in a moment of madness; that she
did not mean it now. Then they might somehow manage
to laugh together and part friends. He was such a good
laugher! She could go away and bury her disappoint-
ment; and next time they met, be to him what he wanted:
a light flame of passion, blown out, relit again. He had
given her the taste for his kisses. She would miss them,
and desire them painfully. If she could act her part skil-
fully now, she need not be for ever without them.

But it was no good: the thing would not be lied about.

She nodded, gazing at him in utter despair. She went on
nodding and nodding, asserting the truth in silence and
with all her force, compelling him to believe it. She saw
him flush faintly beneath his sallow skin.

1 I’m very sorry then,’ he said, in his frozen voice.

She cried out:

c Oh, Roddy! Did you never like me? Didn’t you even

262

DUSTY ANSWER

like me? All these years! It seemed as if you did. . . .
I couldn’t have grown to — like you so much if you hadn’t
given me a little — a little return. . .

1 Of course I liked you very much,’ he said. i I always
thought you were extremely attractive.’

‘ Attractive! ’ She bowed her face in her hands. c Yes.
,1 was attractive to you. And so . . . That you should
have treated me so lightly, Roddy! Oh, did I really, really
deserve that? ’

He was silent.

4 If you’d warned me, Roddy . . . given me some hint.
I was so romantic and idealistic about you — you’ve no idea.
... I thought you must think of me in the same sort
of way I thought about you. . . . Couldn’t you have
warned me? ’

He said in a voice choked with exasperation:

* I did try to shew you, I tell you. I should have thought
I’d shewn you often enough. Didn’t I say I was never to
be taken seriously? ’

She sighed and nodded her head drearily. She was beaten.

4 Yes. Yes, you did. I wouldn’t be warned, I was such
a fool. Oh, it’s all my fault. A good sell for me.’

‘Well, I’d better go now,’ he said after a pause.

He took a step or two and then turned back. She still
leaned against the wall, and something in her attitude or
expression seemed suddenly to move him. He lingered,
hesitated. His face shewed a little trouble and confusion.

4 1 suppose you’re all right? ’ he said.

4 Oh, I shall be quite all right.’

4 Please forget all about me.’

4 1 shan’t forget about you. But I shall forget all this —
if you will do the same. We will meet in the future, Rod-
dy, won’t we? — just as usual, — with all the others? ’

c I think it would be better not to. I think we’d better
not write to each other or ever meet again.’

4 Not ever meet again, Roddy? ’ How did he come to be
master of such cold decisions? She felt like a child in futile

DUSTY ANSWER

263

conflict with the fixed and unalterable will of a grown-up
person. ‘Why? Why? Why? Please do let me. Please
do. I won’t ever be a nuisance again, I promise. You’ve
said you liked me. Oh, I must see you! If I can’t see you, I
can’t ever see any of them again. Don’t you see? And
then I’d have nothing . ... You wouldn’t tell them, would
you, Roddy? Please let me see you again.’

It had lasted too long. In another moment she would be
on her knees to him, hysterical, loathsome.

A nervous quiver of his lips checked her suddenly and
made her quiet. In some obscure way he was suffering too.
He looked like the little boy whose face had implored her
not to cry that time of the rabbit’s death. Yes, the spectacle
of other people’s pain had always affected him unpleasantly.

‘ It’s all right, Roddy,’ she said. ‘ Don’t worry about
me. I’ll get on without you.’

‘ I’m not worth wasting one moment’s regret on,’ he said,
almost earnestly. ‘ Believe me, Judith. It’s true.’ He
looked at her for the last time. ‘ I can only say again I’m
very sorry and ask you to forget all about it.’

She took a deep breath.

‘ One thing more,’ she said. c I’m not ashamed of any-
thing I’ve done. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in lov-
ing a person and saying so.’

It was not true. The shame of her surrender, her letter,
her unrequited love would go on gnawing, burning, till the
end of her life.

He left her, walking away from her with a graceful and
noiseless tread.

After all, it did not seem to hurt much: certainly not
more than could be borne in secret, without a sign.

It had all been experience, and that was a salutary thing.

You might write a book now, and make him one of the
characters; or take up music seriously; or kill yourself.

It was all so extraordinary. . . . That night had
seemed to Roddy 90 insignificant that instead of hurrying

DUSTY ANSWER

264

away quickly when he got that letter, he had had a girl he
knew down for the day: and that was how he had spoilt his
own escape.

Shut the door on Roddy and turn the key and never open
that room again. Surely it would be quite easy. She saw
herself as a tiny person walking firmly away and not once
looking back. There were plenty of other things to think
about. . , . What was there, safe and simple, to think
about?

Strawberries and cream for supper. Good. Two new
frocks: but he was to have admired her in them. ... A
visit to London next week, and a play.

She noticed suddenly that her hands were bleeding from
slight abrasions. How had that happened? Best to go in
now and arrange her face a little. This shivering had been
going on for a long time.

5

Three weeks later she stepped out of the train at a little
country station in Hampshire ; and was there met by a beam-
ing Martin, and conveyed swiftly in his car to his home.

The long drive wound through shrubbery and great beech
trees, and opened in a wide sweep before the long low many-
windowed house-front. It was an old manor, built of
exquisitely time-tempered brick. The great porch was
covered with clematis and jasmine; and here and there
climbing bushes of yellow or white roses wove their way up
the walls and coiled around the window-frames. Beyond it
and on each side of it she caught or imagined glimpses of a
rich old garden, lawns and a herbaceous border, cedar trees,
yew hedges, and an espalier of peach-trees along a high wall.

A butler appeared, took her suitcase and slid away again.

Martin led the way through the oak-panelled hall into a
large bright flowery chintz drawing-room. All the colours
were blue and pink and white ; and there were photographs
everywhere, and vases full of delphiniums, roses and lilies.
The French windows opened on to the sunny lawn, and, set

DUSTY ANSWER

265

in front of them, the tea-table shone with blue and white
china, and silver, and glass jars of honey and jam. Behind
the tea-table sat Martin’s mother, smiling.

She was as clean and fresh, as white and pink and blue as
her drawing-room. Her erect and trim 1 title figure was
crowned with white hair; her blue rather prominent eyes
held the wistful appeal of the short-sighted as she looked in-
to Judith’s face to greet her. Her thin mouth smiled and
went on smiling, happily, vaguely, with a kind of sweet and
weak persistence. All the lines in her face ran upwards as
if she had spent her life smiling. She had a white skin with
a clear rose flush over each cheekbone. She was really very
pretty in her white lace dress and fleecy pale blue wrap: a
mother to take out to dine in her best black frock and all
her diamonds and feel proud of.

€ So this is Judith that I’ve heard so much about,’ she said
charmingly; and put a hand on her arm to lead her to the
tea-table.

Three black spaniels begged and adored at her feet; or
rolled over, waving limp self-conscious devotional paws.

Over the mantelpiece hung the portrait of Martin’s dead
father. He had been Governor of somewhere: an important
man. He looked reliable and kindly, with Martin’s brown
eyes and untidy features.

On the opposite wall hung a sentimental pastel portrait,
life-size, of Martin at the age of three: golden-brown curls,
pink cheeks, a white silk blouse with a frilly collar. There
were some books in glass-fronted book-cases, some goodish
furniture and china; one or two good water-colours and
some indifferent ones; abundant plump cushions in broad
soft chairs and couches. It was a house that shewed in every
detail the honourable, conventional, deeply-rooted English
traditions of Martin’s people.

And yet not they, with their sober steadfastness, but that
wild sister, the disgrace, Mariella’s mother, had prepared, it
seemed, the strange mould for the next generations: for all,
that is, save Martin himself.

266

DUSTY ANSWER

He was in high spirits. He smiled with all his white
teeth, and threw sandwiches to the dogs, and teased his
mother, and stared in a sort of delighted astonishment to
see her actually sitting at tea with him in his home. He
looked almost handsome in his bright blue shirt, open to
shew a white strong well-modeled throat rising cleanly from
the broad shoulders.

He did not know that Judith was dead: that a dummy
was sitting beside him. He had declared several times how
well she was looking.

He said suddenly:

Heard from Roddy, Judith? ’

She was not prepared for that name; and she felt a faint-
ness sweep over her.

‘ No, Martin, I haven’t.*

c I had a letter from him this morning. It’s pure agony
for Roddy to answer an invitation, even, so I was flattered.
He and I and one or two other chaps are going to do some
sailing next month, off the Isle of Wight, and he actually
wrote to make arrangements.’

c What fun that will be, Martin.’

She bowed her head over the plate in her lap, crumbling
a scone to fragments.

c Why don’t you come too, Judith? Do! It’d be per-
fectly proper wouldn’t it, Mummie? We’re her bachelor
uncles.’

It was precisely at those words, at the unexpected recall-
ing of all that light-heartedness, that happiest day of all,
that the thing leapt to life within her, and fiercely, horribly
pressed towards birth. Oh, now there was no hope.
Roddy had arisen all in a moment from his false burial.

With a vast effort she prevented her eyes from closing
quite; but to speak was impossible.

* Roddy says ’ began Martin, glanced across at her,

and stopped uncertainly, startled. He was silent, and then

^Tired, Judith? ’

DUSTY ANSWER 267

* A bit — after my journey — it’s so hot ?:o travel. Isn’t
it? ’ She turned to his mother.

c Yes, my dear, it is , 5 she said cooingly. ‘ Come, I’ll take
you to your room and you shall rest till dinner.’

Martin had got up and was hovering c er her, anxious
and despondent. But she could smile at h n now, and she
said:

c I’d rather go out if I may, and get cool. The garden
looks so lovely.’

c That’s right then,’ said Martin’s mother encouragingly.
* Take her out, Martin darling, and shew her the rock-gar-
den. Martin and I have been making a rock-garden, Ju-
dith — I may call you Judith, mayn’t I? ’ She laid a hand
again on Judith’s arm. ‘ It’s such fun. Martin and I are
both ridiculous potterers and experimenters. Are you like
that? ’

‘ Not practically, I’m afraid.’

‘ Ah, well, it’s a delightful hobby. It keeps me busy and
healthy, doesn’t it, Martin? ’ She looked up into his face,
and he put a large hand upon her little shoulder. c There,’
she added. ‘ Run along now. Don’t let Martin take you in
the fields or up to his precious farm: you’ll spoil your pretty
shoes. Aren’t they darling shoes, Martin? And such a
fretty frock.’

With little pats and handwavings and vague benevolence
she saw them out of the French windows down the steps
into the garden.

Martin said:

* Wait. I’ll take a gun. We’re simply tripping over
rabbits this year. It’s awful.’

She did not hear properly; nor, when Martin came back
to her, did she grasp the significance of the gun over his
shoulder.

He led her out of the garden by a wooden bridge over a
stream half-hidden in forget-me-nots, kingcups and iris
plants; through the meadow where grazed the pedigree

268

DUSTY ANSWER

cows which, so he said, were his mother’s pride; over a stile
and up on to the chalky rabbit-pitted hillside.

She was standing among the willow trees, and out of the
moonlight a voice was saying in a low hurry: ‘ I love you ’
— and saying another thing damnably characteristic;
‘ Lovely Judy! Lovely dark eyes! ’ His teeth gleamed as
he smiled in the moonlight. ... He closed his eyes. . . •
It was all in such bad taste, in such bad taste. . . .

Martin was pointing out the marches of the estate.
There were beech-copses and farms and two gentle folds
of sun-drenched sheep-strewn hill between them and its
fin'll hedgerows.

‘ You know I do love it,’ said Martin shyly. ‘ I worship
the soil.’ He hesitated and then said with a laugh: ‘ Funny:
Sometimes I absolutely wish I were dead so that I could be
buried in it and have it all over me and inside me for ever
and ever. . . . Look at the way those slopes overlap. . . .’
His eyes fastened on them, with a hungry expression.

Then this was Martin’s secret bread. It was his land
that nourished him at the source, and made of him this
man with an individual dignity and simplicity at the core
of his ordinariness. She made an effort to come nearer to
him in mind.

‘ Yes ... I know Martin.’

He turned joyfully.

‘ 1 always tell you everything, Judith. I suppose it’s be-
cause I know you’ll understand.’

‘Which bit do you want to be buried in, Martin? ’

* I don’t care — as long as I’m well inside it.’

‘Would you ever commit suicide? ’

‘ Would I what? ’

‘ Commit suicide. To — to get there quicker.’

He laughed and said comfortably:

‘ Well, I’ve never been tempted to so far. . . .’

‘ It’s an old family place is it, Martin? ’

‘ Oh, yes. My father was born here, and all the others.
Roddy’s father and Julian’s, and the only sister — Mariella’s

DUSTY ANSWER

269

mother. She was very beautiful you know — and absolutely
wild — almost mad I should think. She ran away from her
husband and goodness knows what sort of life she led. I
believe it simply broke my grandfather’s heart. He died,
and then Grannie — you remember Gromie? — couldn’t
bear to go on living here alone. All the children were
scattered or married or dead. So she m< ved to the little
place on the river — next door to you. . . . Poor old lady,
she didn’t have much of a time. She outhved all her chil-
dren except Roddy’s father: and he was never much use to
her. He quarrelled with his father when he was quite a
boy and left home. I don’t know what about. Grandpapa
was a terrible martinet. ... Yes, they were an unlucky
family.’

c And they all died young, Martin? ’

c More or less. But we none of us ever live to be old,’ he
said cheerfully.

They had reached the top of the hill; and, suddenly, up
went Martin’s gun. Then, with an exclamation of disgust,
he lowered it again.

c Wasn’t ready for him. Once they get into that
bracken ’

i What’s that, Martin? ’

* Rabbit. Didn’t you see ? Beastly vermin. . . . Never
saw anything like them. Much as we can do to keep pace
with them.’

He was muttering to himself in an annoyed way.

* But, Martin — do you mean to shoot them ? ’

c Shoot them? I should say I do, if I get the chance.’

* 1 never have been able to understand how people can
bear to shoot rabbits.’

* Hum,’ said Martin, grim and indifferent. * You
mustn’t expect me to be sentimental about ’em.’

His eyes roved round alertly; his gun was ready to go
up in a trice. He was not giving a thought now to Judith
walking beside him.

Just over the crest of the hill came a sudden small kicking

DUSTY ANSWER

270

and flurry. A tiny pair of fur legs started away into the
bracken, the white scut glancing and bobbing. But the
bracken thinned away to nothing here: the small form was
bound to emerge again in a moment.

There was a sharp crack.

* Aha! ’ said Martin; and be went forward to where
something flipped in the air and fell back again, horribly
twitching in a mechanical and aimless motion.

c Oh! Oh! Oh! 9 She stood rooted where he had left
her, aghast.

He was stooping to examine it. . . .

She knew how it was looking — laid on its flat side and
shewing the tender and vulnerable whiteness beneath its
frail stiff paws. He was stooping just as a figure had stooped
above that other rabbit. . . . What years ago! . . .
Roddy’s rabbit whose death and burial had started this aw-
ful loving. Who was it devilish enough to prepare these
deliberate traps for memory, these malicious repetitions and
agonizing contrasts?

Oh, this world! . . . No hope, no meaning in it; noth-
ing but perversities, cruelties indulged in for sport, lickings
of lips over helpless victims. Men treated each other just as
Martin treated small animals. The most you could hope
for was a little false security: they gave you that to sharpen
their pleasure in the blow they were preparing: even the
ones that looked kind: Martin for instance. As for Roddy
— Roddy liked experimenting. He chose girls sometimes:
that was more voluptuous. She saw his face, pallid and
grinning, crowds of leering faces, all his. The hillside
darkened. She sank on her knees, shaking and perspiring.

He was striding back.

* I buried it/ he called. / It was a little smashed about
the he^d.’

She had to lift her face towards him; but she made it
blind. He came and stood beside her — he dared to, red-
handed as he was.

* I’m afraid it wasn’t one of the cleanest shots/ he said

DUSTY ANSWER 27 1

cheerfully. * 1 got him at too long a range. Still, — that’s
one less. . . . Come on.’

Her mind would frame only one sentence; and she tried
over and over again to say it.

‘ I will not be a witness of your butcheries. I will not
be a witness of your butcheries.’

But he would not understand. Perhaps it did not make
sense anyway.

c Oh dear! ’ She sat there, tearing up turf with shaking
cold wet hands, face averted, eyes staring, mouth open and
out of shape, impossible to control. ‘ Oh dear! Oh dear!
Oh dear! ’ The repetition was a sort of whine or mew.

c What’s the matter? ’ he said sharply. He sank down
beside her, and his astounded face came round her shoulder.
c Oh, the poor little thing, the poor little thing! . . .’
c Do you mean the rabbit? ’

She nodded.

‘ But, Judith — good heavens! A rabbit. . . . Judith.
I’d never have shot it if I’d dreamed you’d mind.’

She went on staring and pulling up the grass.
c Oh, this world! ’

c Judith. . . .’ He was silent, completely at a loss.
c Still — it can’t be helped. ... I suppose one gets ac-
customed. . .

Her mind grew black again with formless and colossal
conceptions of torture, murder, lust: and Roddy’s face went
on grinning among them. All was lost, lost.

1 I’m very sorry,’ said Martin helplessly.
c Oh, I don’t blame. . .

€ It didn’t suffer you know. Did you think it had? That
kicking didn’t mean anything: it was simply reflex action.’
He thought he had found the clue; and added cheerfully:
c You’d do the same if I shot you dead at the back of the
head.’

c I wish you had.’

She wept.

* Good God! Really, Judith. . . . I’ve said I’m sorry.

DUSTY ANSWER

272

I can’t go on saying it, can I? I didn’t know you were so —
you oughtn’t to be so — easily upset. Rabbits have to be kept
down, you know. They destroy everything. Ask my
mother.’

She went on weeping; and after a little while he got up
and strode a few steps away, and stood with his back to her,
shoulders hunched.

Worse and worse: he was deserting her. . . . She bit
hard on her thumb till the pain of it steadied her, waited and
then called tremblingly:

i Martin! ’

He turned, saw her hand held out and came quickly and
knelt beside her.

c What is it, Judy, what is it 5 ’

c Oh, Martin! Oh, it’s nothing. Don’t ask, don’t. . . .
On ly— j ust — on ly ’

His arms went round her and she abandoned herself
against him, pressing her head into his shoulder, groping for
comfort, sobbing vast sobs, while he knelt beside her quietly
and let himself be wept on; and now and then gave her
shoulder a little pat.

After a long time she was so empty of tears that their
source seemed dry for ever. She would never in her life
weep any more. In the thin crystalline buoyancy of exhaus-
tion she lay back on his shoulder and observed the gold light
lying tender and still in the folds of the hills; and two rab-
bits skipping unperturbed not so very far away; and blue
butterflies swinging on the long grasses; and all the evening
shadows slanting beautifully downwards. Peace and com-
fort dropped upon her. ,The heavy ache for Roddy was
gone. Oh, now to make this no-pain permanent, to fix this
languor, and mindless calm, to smother the voice which cried
and cried: c I am cheap and shameful. I have been used for
sport! ’ Now was the time to turn to Martin and see if he
could save her.

She sat up and dried her eyes.

DUSTY ANSWER

*73

c There ! ’ she said. c I’m sorry. Thank you, Martin.
You are a dear. You’ve always been very kind to me,
haven’t you ? ’

c Kind to you! Oh, Judith, you know ’

c I think you must rather like me, Marti a.’

He said with a deep intake of breath:

‘ Like you! You know I’ve loved you for years.’

She was silent, tasting a faint relief and satisf action 5 and
then said:

c Well, what would you like me to do about it, Martin? ’
She saw that his hands were trembling, and he answered
shakily :

c Do about it . . . I . . . What do you want to do

about it? ... I’ve said I ’

c Would you like me to marry you? ’ she asked softly.
c God! If there was a chance! . . .’
c Well — I might, Martin.’

She started to laugh and cry weakly at sight of the trans-
figured face he turned towards her; and a voice went on
protesting inside her: c No! No! No! It isn’t true. I
never will.’

£ Oh, I’m so tired, Martin, I’m so tired! ’
c Come home, my dear, come home.’

It was compassion and exultation and doubt and certainty,
all mixed in an inarticulate eloquence.

He lifted her and brushed her skirt.

There was nothing to do but accompany him down the
hill.

He left her at her bedroom door. His mother, he said,
would come and give her aspirin and put her to bed, and see
that dinner was brought up to her. His mother was splendid
about headaches. To-morrow there would be plenty of
time to talk.

He had behaved perfectly.

She fell asleep that night in her white room with its
cretonne wreaths of pink roses tied up with blue ribbon.

274

DUSTY ANSWER

and dreamed of Roddy. He sat on the hill, close to where the
rabbit had been shot, and conversed in friendly fashion.
He had come back from abroad, from some remote island.
He took a puff at his pipe and said with apparent irrelevance:
4 Not wives, my dear girl — mistresses. It’s more convenient.
When I return I intend to take Martin as my partner/

, 4 Martin wouldn’t come. Not if it’s mistresses. . . .’

4 Oh, dear me, yes. He’ll soon forget you over there.
It’s a very voluptuous clime.’

She said very humbly:

4 Would you care for me to come, Roddy? ’

4 I fear you’re supered,’ he said with elaborate courtesy.

4 1 suppose so.’

He studied a notebook.

4 Where do I come in your list, Roddy? ’

4 You’re in the twenties, somewhere,’ he said indiffer-
ently.

4 Oh, miles down ’

He seemed suddenly bored or suspicious, and shifted his
position. As he did so, she saw his face for an instant,
heavy-lidded and dissipated. She understood that he was
thinking of voluptuous climes.

It seemed then there was no use in hoping to win him
back. He was, obviously, bored to death with her.

4 What’s in here? ’ he said suddenly, and plunged his
hand into the earth.

The rabbit! . . . the rabbit! . . . Everything shrieked,
— and she started awake, sweating, in horror and desolation.

She leaned out of the window and saw the moon high in
the sky. Beneath it, the trees had suffered their moon-
change and were sculptured masses of dark marble, washed
over with a silver-green phosphorescence. A tragic night,
sleepless* and staring beneath the urgent pressure of the
moon: there was no comfort in it.

This house was full of ghosts. . . . Perhaps Roddy’s
father had slept in this room as a small boy. He had grown

DUSTY ANSWER

275

up here and then shaken the dust of his home from his feet
and gone away and begotten Roddy. . . . Charlie must
have looked like the beautiful wild sister, and that was why
the grandmother had given him all that anxious and painful
love.

The sister had given birth to Mariella, a: id then run away
and led God knows what sort of life. Po< r Mariella! She
had never had the sun on her: she had li ed from birth —
perhaps before birth — in the shadow ca>t by her bright
mother; and when she grew up she had not emerged from
it. That was the truth about Mariella.

The family portraits were in the dining-room. To-mor-
row she would see them, study and compare. . . .

It was madness to have come to this haunted house.

Oh, Roddy! She could not live without him. He must,
he must come back and take her for a year — a month even.
Perhaps he had found out by now that he did love her after
all, and was too proud to write and confess it. Martin had
said it was agony to him to answer even an invitation. She
must write to him again, give him an opening.

Where was he now? If she could be transported to
him now, this minute, she could make him succumb utterly
to loving her. She would think of such ways of delighting
him with caresses that he would never be able to do without
her again. ... It was sheer stupidity to go on enduring
this agony when it only needed a trifling effort to end it all.
For instance, if you leaned a little further out of the win-
dow. . . . But one did not commit suicide in other people’s
houses: that was the ultimate error of taste.

And then, poor Martin’s feelings at the inquest!

< Mr, Martin Fy /<?, who was overcome with emotion
several times , stated that a few hours previously deceased
had declared her willingness to become his wife. This
avowal , made on her own initiative , had met with ample
response on his side , and there seemed every cause for joy
and congratulation , The coroner in returning a verdict

DUSTY ANSWER

276

of suicide while of unsound mind observed that this re-
versal of the customary 'procedure in betrothals was but
another example of the lack of self-control so deplorably
frequent in the young woman of to-day , and seemed to
him sufficient in itself to suggest a distinct lack of mental
balance in deceased . He tendered his sincere st sympathy
to Mr . Fyfe and absolved him from all blame *

And Roddy might depart from his habits and inclinations
once again, and write Martin a letter of condolence.

No, no. She was going to show him she did not care, was
not weeping for him: she was going to announce her engage-
ment to Martin before long.

There would be a paragraph in c The Times,* congratu-
lations, letters to write — (/ am a very lucky girl) — a pretty
ring — and almost certainly photographs in the illustrated
weeklies.

Roddy would smile his cynical smile because she had
behaved just as women always did behave: so long as they
hooked some poor devil — no matter whom — they were quite
satisfied. And a damned fuss they made if a chap refused
to be hooked.

Martin would probably insist on being married in
Church, and ask Roddy to be his best man.

No. Poor Martin was not going to be able to save her.
Perhaps, instead, she was going to destroy him.

She went back to bed and tossed between her sheets till
dawn.

6

Next morning Martin’s face of suppressed excitement
shewed only too clearly how deeply the web was tangled
now.

She went with him after breakfast to visit his little farm.
There was something in the brown soft earth, in the
dark warmth of byres and stables, in the rich smell of animal
breath and hay and soil mingled, something in the many

DUSTY ANSWER

277

secret, silent heads lifting, snuffing, reaching tentatively out,
then tossing away from the outstretched hand; especially
something in the clear golden-brown eyes cumnisly greeting
you for a moment, then recoiling, relapsing into their animal
aloofness: something that painfully suggested Roddy. He
was like animals, electric and mysterious. The half-dis-
trustful fleeting glance, the dark soft glossy head, the ap-
pealing grace : these were attributes he had in common with
the farm dog, and the calves, the black kitt< ns playing all
over the stables, the dark chestnut colt in the meadow.

There was no escape from him in all the world.

She said to herself, moving her lips:

* Sick fancies. Sick fancies.*

If she could see Roddy as a natural human being, then
only could she hope to be free of him.

She climbed a slope and sat on a stile at the top, waiting
for Martin while he interviewed a farmer.

Below lay the house and garden she had elected to share
with Martin all her life: lovely, intricate patterns of roof
and wall in the morning sun; enchanting shapes of violet
shadow spilt across the mellow brick; charming lavender
smoke spirals from the chimneys; exquisitely-ordered paths
and lawns, hedges and flower-beds; two cedar trees motion-
less in their great planes of gloom on green brightness, green
on gloom; and beyond the fruitful walls, the enfolding
patiently-productive land which was Martin’s.

You would be thought lucky indeed to live here. Perhaps
the land might compensate, drug the mind and give it slow
contented musings. Perhaps you could escape from Martin
and feel alone with it. . . . But no: with its medium tints
and mild companionable expression it was he himself. [You
could never get away from Martin here.

As he came running up the hill, eagerly, like a cheerful
dog, she watched him coldly. With a faint distaste she
observed his agile leap on to the stile beside her.

* Well? * he burst out happily.

* Well, Martin ? *

DUSTY ANSWER

278

* What are you thinking of, looking so solemn? 9

The unpardonable question. And he would always be
asking it and she always answering sweetly with a lie; or
else disagreeably with: ‘ Nothing/ No peace ever again, not
even to think one’s private disloyal venomous thoughts.

c I was thinking, Martin, I don’t believe you know a bit
what I’m like.’

* I know enough to know I love you anyway,’ he said
with hearty confidence.

€ You don’t,’ she said petulantly. c Because you’ve never
troubled to find out what I’m really like. It’s never oc-
curred to you there might be anything more than what you
see. That’s so like a man. . . . Lord, how stupid! Every-
body dismissed with a little label. Everybody taken for
granted once they’ve passed a few idiotic conventional
tests. . .

< What on earth have I done now? ’ cried Martin despair-

ingly.

‘ Nothing. Nothing. I’m only warning you.’

After a pause of non-comprehension he said gently:

c Of course I don’t take you for granted, Judith. I could
never do that. You’re so clever and beautiful and mar-
vellous — much, much too good for me. Oh, my dear! —
you don’t know how I value you.’ The tears came into his
eyes. < Whatever happens, nothing can alter my idea of
you. If I could believe you had any faults, they’d only
make me love you more.’

* Would they? Would they? You don’t know what re-
volting ones they are.’

He laughed and said indulgently:

* It’s no good trying to frighten me.’

c It’s true? she cried. 6 D’you suppose I’m trying to be
humble because I think it’s the correct idea? ’

He said nothing, and she felt him trying with perplexity
to think out the proper method of dealing with her mood.
Finally he said:

c Judy. I’ll tell you what seems to me the only important

DUSTY ANSWER

279

thing — and that is, that we should be absolutely truthful
with each other. Don’t you agree? I think telling the truth
is my only principle — besides washing. As long as I know
exactly where I am, I can stand anything.’ He drew her to
him and turned her face so that his warm kind eyes could
look into hers. c I’ve always dreamt of finding someone I
could tell everything to, and trust absolutely.’

Tell everything to . . . O God! Wa he going to
say: 6 My wife and I must have no seems from each
other ’ ? Was he that sort of fool? He went on:

i Judith I might as well try to lie to myself as you. And
I can’t lie to myself. Why if I were to stop loving you
even — if that could be — I’d have to tell you straight out. I
couldn’t pretend. I hofe you couldn’t either.’

‘ No, I couldn’t.’

He went on with a shade of anxiety.

c And supposing there was ever anything worrying you —
anything on your mind — please try to tell me. You needn’t
be afraid. I hope perhaps — you might think it was — rather
nice to feel there was a person you could rely on always.
Would you, Judith? ’

He paused, breathless and deeply moved.

‘ Yes, Martin.’

‘ Please think of me as that person.’

c I will, Martin.’

c You’re not worrying about anything now?/

* No, no.’

c That’s right. As long as I know . I thought yesterday
. . . But I suppose it was the rabbit? ’

She shuddered, and nodded her head, remembering her
dream, unable to speak.

He said in an amused, tender, big-man-to-little-woman
way:

‘ You poor little thing to be so upset.’

She laughed in response, deprecatingly, drearily.

He tightened his arm round her, sighed happily and said:

* I can’t believe it.’

DUSTY ANSWER

280

4 Nor can I.*

4 1 didn’t sleep a wink last night.’

‘ Nor did I.’

4 After all these years. . . . Do you know, I’ve been in
love with you ever since I’ve known you? Never anybody
else for a moment. But I didn’t dare hope. ... I wonder
what Roddy will say when we tell him.’

4 I wonder.’

* You know I was almost sure not so very long ago that
if you liked any one of us specially it was Roddy.’

4 Were you really, Martin? ’

4 Yes, and what’s more I thought he was bound to fall in
love with you. God, I was jealous! ’

4 Jealous of Roddy? Were you? How ridiculous! ’

4 Not really ridiculous. Roddy’s so terribly nice and at-
tractive, it seemed only natural you should prefer him to a
dull chap like me.’

4 He didn’t ever say anything, did he, Martin? ’

4 Not he. Roddy’s the darkest horse I know.’

4 Yes, he is, isn’t he ? ’ She laughed. 4 1 suppose heaps of
people fall in love with him? ’

4 Yes,’ he said gravely. 4 He’s run after all right.’

4 Does he — do you suppose he — falls in love himself,
much? ’

4 Oh, more or less, I suppose.’

4 Not seriously? ’

He laughed and shook his head.

4 Not very seriously I don’t think.’

4 Perhaps he was a tiny bit in love with me . . . for a
bit. . . .’

4 1 dare say he was. I don’t see how anybody could help
being,’ he said with light tenderness, dropping quick kisses
on her hair.

4 And then I suppose he stopped. . . . And found some-
body else. , . .’

4 Perhaps he did. Don’t let’s worry about him anyway.
He and I have different ideas about — all that sort of thing.

DUSTY ANSWER

281

He’s rather naughty and spoilt I think — though he is such
a good chap/ he added hastily, as if fearful of sounding
disloyal.

She persisted, in anguish:

‘ How do you mean, naughty and spoilt, Martin? ’

c Oh, I don’t know.’ He was embarrassed, unwilling to
give his friend away. ‘ A bit of a sensation-hunter perhaps.’

That was it then: she had been a new sensation: one that
had quickly palled, because she had been so swiftly, so en-
tirely yielded up to him. She should have whetted his
appetite by offering only a little at a time and then with-
drawing it: so, he might still be desirous of her. Instead
she had satiated him at the outset.

She would know better next time. . . . But there would
be no next time. Instead, there was Martin now who said:

c Won’t you kiss me? 9

She looked at him, aching with tears that were like an
inward bleeding; and put her lips on his cheek for half a
second.

1 Listen, Martin.’ She took his hand and started to speak
hurriedly, for fear of more kissing. c About that truth
business. What was I going to say. . . .’ She steadied
her voice. ‘Yes. If you tried to — compel the truth you’d
expect a lie, wouldn’t you? That’s logic. I’d always ex-
pect a lie anyway. I mean ... I shouldn’t be at all sur-
prised by it. I’d say it was my fault for not leaving you
alone — not letting you be free enough — I’d think: well, I
tried to coerce him, so he chose to deceive me. He was
quite right.’

€ A lie’s a lie,’ said Martin obstinately.

‘A lie’s a — What does that mean? It doesn’t mean
anything. Unless you believe God watches and writes down
in his notebook: Martin Fyfe told a lie on Monday. If this
goes on he won’t get his harp. Do you? Truth! What’s
truth? Why, half your so-called truths are built on lies.
You can scarcely distinguish. I could — I bet I could — act
a lie to you all my life and you’d never know it. Be a lie.’

282

DUSTY ANSWER

He flushed swiftly at the last words and said in a stiff
way:

‘ I daresay you could. You’re clever enough for anything
and I’m a fool. But don’t try, please. . . .’

‘ But there must be no compulsion, Martin! ’ she insisted,
horribly. * You wouldn’t try — to get at me — would you?
You’d let me be, by myself? If you ever forced me when
I was unwilling I’d tell lies and lies and congratulate my-
self for it. And I’d never forgive you.’

He lit a cigarette and said, close-lipped, eyes fixed on the
grass;

* Does all this mean you want me to understand you’ve —
changed your mind and wish to cry off? ’

She threw out her arms dramatically, crying:

‘ Can’t I say anything ? Can’t I say anything without
being misunderstood? . . . being . . .’

4 I’ve never seen you like this, Judith.’ He got up and
stood looking at her in despair. 1 It worries me. I don’t
understand.’

c It’s not customary, I suppose, in an engaged young
lady . .

She shut her eyes, and the tears scorched their lids bitterly.

6 Judy, what is it? Oh, Judy! ’

c Oh, Martin! ’ Hands pressed to forehead, voice a faint
moan, she struggled on: ‘ Only there are — some things —
aren’t there? — there might be things which can't be told.
Things one must forget — try to — at once ’

i Yes. Yes. If you say so,’ he soothed and whispered.

c Because of the useless misery . . . and because they’ve
— withered up your heart — so that you couldn’t recall them
— even if you tried.’

‘ Yes, my dear.’

* I’ve had — one or two unhappinesses in my life. Every-
body has, I suppose. I want to forget them. . .

* Of course, Judy, of course. You must never tell me
anything you’d rather not.’

She put her arms round his neck a moment.

DUSTY ANSWER 283

c Thank you, Martin . 5 She dried her eyei and said: * I
won’t be so silly any more . 5

And if a doubt or a fear had begun to clou-: his mind, his
voice was none the less gentle, his eyes none ti e less trusting.

He took her back to the garden and gathere d sun-warmed
strawberries for her; and they talked cheer fully together
until lunch time.

That afternoon Martin fished for trout n the stream,
and she sat on the bank and read a page of her book now
and then; and sometimes watched him; and mostly dreamed.

His small-boyish absorption was amusing and rather ap-
pealing. He was immensely happy, moving along the bank
in cautious excited silence, casting deftly up and down
stream. If he were to be disturbed or upset in his pursuit,
he would say c Ach! 5 and swear, and flush all over his face,
just as he had in the old days. Even if she were the dis-
turber, it would make no difference. She knew better than
to interfere, or to speak except when spoken to, and then
briefly and to the point. That was in his eyes one of her
most admirable qualities. He loved to have her beside him,
behaving nicely and looking pretty, shewing interest, and
smiling when it was seemly.

By the constant upward curve of his lips and by occasional
dwelling glances, she knew he had thrown off the memory
of this morning’s unnatural emotional perplexities, and was
content.

If only their marriage could be a perpetual sitting on a
green bank by a stream, watching him tolerantly, almost
tenderly, with quiet pleasure in his bodily magnificence, with
a half-contemptuous smile for his happiness, and yet with
comfort in the knowledge of it, and in the knowledge that
her mere presence was sufficient for it, while her mind was
off on its own, worlds removed from him! . . .

It would be such an immense easing of the burden if only
so much insincerity as was implicit in the acquiescent body
was required, without the lies of the lips and the mind. She

DUSTY ANSWER

284

on the green bank always, with leisurely musings, and he
moving past her, up and down, not touching her or demand-
ing or possessing, but fishing for ever: it would be a pleasant
enough marriage, fie would look up now and then, smile
approvingly, and say:

6 Still there, Judith? *
c Still here, Martin.*
i Quite cheerful?*

4 Quite.*

< Feeling safe? *

‘ Qh, yes.*

c That*s right. Well, I’ll go on fishing then.*
c And I’ll go on thinking.*

And he would smile again and send his line whipping and
hissing through the air.

All the rest could go by, remain unsaid, with no falsehood
at all. Perhaps, after years of patient sitting, even Roddy
might be forgotten; or transformed into an object for idle
pleasurable regrets.

In the midst of these speculations, Martin came back and
threw himself down beside her.
c No luck, Martin? *

6 Not a nibble. ... I don’t care. I’d rather talk to
you.* He gazed lovingly at her and said:

‘ What are you thinking of? *

She clenched her hands; then answered softly:

*. . . of nothing . . .

When I muse thus I sleef .*

He turned her face towards him with a hand beneath her
chin, and gently kissed her lips.

€ Oh, Judith, I’ll try to make you happy.*

‘ And I’ll try to make you happy, Martin.*

Perhaps in time . . . Perhaps in time even Roddy . . .
At that moment of wistful peace it seemed admirable to
undertake the task of making Martin happy.

DUSTY ANSWER

285

He said shyly:

c I wonder what made you say you’d many me/

c Because Fm so fond of you/

c Ah! That’s not quite the same as loving, is it? 5 His
voice was wistful, but not disappointed.

She took his hand.

‘ No, Martin, not quite the same/

He wrung her hand and said cheerfully:

c Well, it’s something to be going on With. It’s a great
deal more than I deserve. Of course I don’t expect you to
feel romantic about me. Nobody could feel romantic about
me, anyway/

‘ Oh, I think lots of people could. Fm sure they could/
she said; and felt suddenly ashamed. For indeed he was a
man whom many women might love. What right had she
to take him?

< Well, I don’t want them to/ he said. c Your liking’s
more than enough for me/

£ Oh, Martin ! I promise you, at any rate, I wish I were
in love with you/

£ Mightn’t that be the first step? ’ he said smiling.

£ No, no/ she answered lightly. ‘ I’ve finished with fall-
ing in love. I was in love once/

< When? ’

4 Years ago! It doesn’t amuse me. I reject it. Never
again . . / She felt her lips start to curl and quiver, and
stopped: then added in the same bantering tone: ‘ Foolish-
ness. That’s what it is. And as far as you are concerned,
it would seem almost incestuous/

€ Don’t use horrid words/ He sat up, amused but startled.

* Well it would. Not that I disapprove at all of incest,
in theory. Yet I must confess my instinct’s against it/

6 And so’s mine/ said Martin firmly. c Let’s have no
more nonsense/

He bent forward and dismissed the nonsense with a
hearty kiss.

That was the last straw. Her mood, stretched finer and

286

BUSTY ANSWER

finer in the preceding few minutes, snapped. She rolled
over away from him and stared into the water.

The tiny brilliant green water-plants and cresses grew
up from the mud and pebbles and spread their leaflets below
the surface in delicate array, motionless as if under glass.
Oh, to slip into the water and become something minute and
non-sentient, a sort of fresh water amceba, living peacefully
among their thin-spun tangle of whitish roots — now at once,
before Martin noticed her disappearance! He would peer
and peer into the water, with his red anxious face; and all
in vain. In the shadow of his face her unimpressive form
would be but the more obscured; and, unmoved, she would
stare back at him.

God! — to go mad, crack-brainfed, fantastic, happy mad;
or to be stretched upon a rack in a physical anguish which
precluded thought!

* Tea-time/ said Martin. 1 What a good afternoon it’s
been.’

In the hall they were met with a telegram for Judith.
lc Decided go abroad this week instead of next . Come home
to-morrow . Mother .”

Mamma had grown restless then, a trifle sooner than you
had expected; and sent this peremptory summons. What an
undreamed-of godsend!

‘ You can’t go to-morrow, Judy/ said Martin, much
upset.

‘ I must, Martin. There’ll be such a lot to see to. I
must go as soon as I possibly can. I ought to go to-night.’

The sooner she was out of the house the better.

c You couldn’t possibly get there to-night by train. It’s
such a beastly journey/ He was struck with an idea and
his face, cleared a little. c I tell you what. Wait till after
dinner and I’ll drive you back. If we started about eleven
we’d be at your home soon after daybreak. Do, Judy, do.
It’d be a marvellous drive. And I’ll break in on Mariella
and cadge some breakfast. There’s so much to talk about.

DUSTY ANSWER 287

And if you’re going abroad we shan’t se* each other for
weeks. It’s most infernally disappointing* isn’t it? ’

She agreed that it was. But as for the drive, that would
be a marvellous arrangement. If Mart 1 would send a
wire to tell Mamma to leave the front do>r key under the
mat, she would go and explain to his mother. As she left
him, her heart felt almost light. Perhaps t ie could manage
to wriggle out and escape now, after all.

7

Martin’s mother stood on tiptoe to kiss her good-bye,
while Martin went to fetch the car.

Her box was ready in the hall. She had given a last
glance through the open dining-room door at the family
portraits. She had been thankful to find them few and
devoid of the likenesses she dreaded. They were just any-
body’s respectable family portraits. Of the dead sister there
was no likeness.

Martin’s little sitting-room, with its photograph on the
mantelpiece of a solemn Roddy in Eton clothes, its cricket
groups including Roddy in flannels and a blazer, its painted
green fire-screen decorated by Roddy with strange figures —
that had been far more terrifying. She would not have to
sit there now and look at Martin’s photograph and scrap
albums, as he had suggested.

< I’m sorry you must go,’ said his mother, charming and
abstracted.

* I’m sorry too.’

c But,’ she said gaily, c what a delightful idea, to drive
through the night. Martin loves it, you know. I often
hear him going off on a lovely night like this. Funny boy.
. . . His horn sounds so dreadfully lonely it makes me
want to cry. He likes to have a companion. I used to go
with him sometimes, but I’ve had to give it up. I feel too
old next day.’

She smiled sweetly; and suddenly, standing above her and

288

DUSTY ANSWER

seeing her so small and ageing, Judith felt no longer the
great barrier of difference of generation, but the basic inti-
macy of their common sex; and with this an extreme ten-
derness and pity. She bent and kissed her — the poor thing,
who must lie flat in her room thriftily husbanding her re-
sources for the morrow, while she herself, coming thirty
years of nights behind her, had the open dark for friend.

She knew well enough you did not love her son: she
trusted you not to betray him by marrying him. It would be
horrible to force her to hate you . . . unthinkable.

Car-wheels grated on the gravel outside, and Martin
sounded his horn.

In another few minutes they had waved good-bye to the
small figure on the steps, and taken the road.

Into the deep blue translucent shell of night. The air
parted lightly as the car plunged through it, washing away in
waves that smelt of roses and syringa and all green leaves.
The moon struggled with clouds. She wore a faint and
gentle face.

€ I shouldn’t be surprised if there was rain before day-
break,’ said Martin; and, reaching at length the wan straight
high road, accelerated with a sigh of satisfaction.

‘ Faster, Martin, faster.’

Faster and faster he went. She settled herself close
against him, and through half-shut eyes saw the hawthorn
and wild-rose hedges stream backward on either hand. The
night air was a drug from whose sweet insinuating caress she
prayed never to wake. Soon, through one leafy roadway
after another, the headlights pierced a tunnel of green
gloom. The lanes were full of white scuts and little paws,
paralyzed; and then, as Martin painstakingly slowed down,
dipping and twinkling into the banks. Moths flickered
bright-winged an instant in the lamplight before being
dashed to their fried and ashy death. Once or twice came
human beings, objects of mean and foolish design, incon-
gruous in the night’s vast grandeur; and here and there.

DUSTY ANSWER

289

under the trees, upon the stiles, in the grass, a couple of
them, locked face to face, disquietingly still, gleamed and
vanished. She observed them with distaste : passion was all
ugliness and vulgar imbecility.

Now the moon looked exhausted behind a gathering film
of cloud.

Soon came the rain, with a low murmurous hushing and
whispering through the trees; and then a white blindness of
lightning aching on the eyelids.

* Shall we stop? ’ asked Martin.

c No, no.’

c I remember you hated lightning when you were a
tiddler/

* Do you remember that? ’

* Yes. I shall never forget the day we were trapped by
a thunderstorm in the old boathouse — you and Roddy and I.
How you howled! And then you said you’d seen the light-
ning fall on Roddy’s head and had he been struck dead. I
kept on yelling that if only you’d open your eyes you’d see
him in front of you, as alive as anything; but you only went
on shrieking. And soon we all of us began to believe Roddy
might go up in flame any minute.’

‘ Oh, yes! I’d forgotten.’ She laughed. c I remember
Roddy’s face, so solemn and red and doubtful as he felt the
top of his head. He was terrified I was making a fool
of him and he wouldn’t say a word. I asked him privately
afterwards if he thought the Lord had visited him with a
tongue of fire. He was disgusted.’

Martin threw his head back to laugh.

6 You were a comic child. We used to think you were a
little mad.’

* Did you, Martin? ’ she said, and doubt and sadness swept
over her again.

Perhaps even in those days Roddy had laughed at her,
thought of her as a joke, never as a companion.

‘ It’s a pity really that we ’ She stopped, remember-

ing that she was going to marry Martin — on the verge of

DUSTY ANSWER

290

finishing her sentence : — u that we met again after we
grew up.”

Their relationship should have remained unspoilt in the
mysterious enchantment of childhood, and then she would
never have seen Roddy grow from that lovable small boy
into the elegant indifferent young man who experimented
in sensations.

No more lightning; and the rain came softly on to her
face through the open wind-screen, blurring eyes and mind
and all, until she sank into a half-sleep. Martin clasped her
hard against his shoulder, once, as who should say: w Sleep.
I am here; ” and she felt his enormous protectiveness flow-
ing over her.

When next she opened her eyes, the darkness was taking
back first one veil, then another. Purple paled to lilac and
lilac wasted to grey. The sky was immaculate and without
a glow. The country-side woke from sleep, gently staring
and austere, each object upon it separately outlined without
interrelation of colour and shadow under the uniform wan
light. On the far horizon, a cornfield flashed out one
moment in a pale flood of sunlight; but the sun was still
hidden. The hedges frothed palely with meadowsweet.

Soon came the beech woods crowning the chalk hills. In
the valley below ran the river, blanched and rain-ffattened
between its willows; and the road sloped gently down till it
ran beside it. They were home.

Stiff and blinking, she stumbled out of the car, and stood
on the steps of the porch.

c Thank you, Martin. It was marvellous. I hoped we
should never get here. I thought we wouldn’t — I don’t
know why. I got it into my head you’d manage a quiet
smash without my noticing it. Everything I passed I said
good-bye to — looking my last on all things lovely; and when
I finally dropped off to sleep I thought I’d never wake up.
And after all you brought me safe home, clever boy. I
suffose I’m grateful. But what an effort to have to start
again in an hour or two ! ’

DUSTY ANSWER 29 1

He did not answer at once; but after a few moments of
fingering his hat looked away and said:

4 Are you very unhappy, Judith? ’

c Well — not very, I suppose. Rather. Not more than’s
good for me. I shall get over it. . . . Fm so sleepy I
don’t know what I’m saying. Don’t take my notice.’

c I thought you weren’t happy ’ 1 stopped, over-

come.

c It’s all right, Martin. Don’t you worry. I laugh at
myself. How I laugh at myself! ’

c Can’t you tell me what it’s about? ’ he said gruffly.
c I don’t believe I can.’

He turned away and leaned despondently against the
porch.

The sky was glowing now through all its length and
breadth, like the inside of a shell. The dew shimmered over
the grass and the greyish roses reddened, yellowed on their
bushes. The birds bedazed the air with wild crystalline
urgent repetition.

c You go in a day or two,’ he said at last.
c Yes. And you? ’
i I join Roddy next week.’

c Ah, yes.’ She turned to unlock the door, and fumbling
for the key, lightly remarked: 4 There’s a person I shall
never see again.’

‘Who? ’

He affected surprise; but he was only pretending. She
could feel him saying to himself : ‘ So that’s it.’ And sud-
denly she hated herself for exposing herself, and him for
guessing and dissembling, for forcing her to pronounce that
name; and she added:

‘ I can’t marry you, Martin, after all.’

Silence.

6 Well, I’ve told you the truth at last. I thought I could
pretend to you all my life, but I can’t. You ought to be
glad.’

He inclined his head.

DUSTY ANSWER

292

4 Aren’t you going to say something, Martin? ’

He shrugged his shoulders.

4 Please forgive me/ she said ; but she could not feel con-
trition: only a great weariness.

4 Of course/ he said. 4 There’s nothing to forgive. I
never really believed you’d marry me anyway.’

4 Luckily I’m going abroad. You’d better forget all
about me.’

4 It’s no good saying that/ he said, with a brief and bitter
laugh. 4 It was too late for that years ago.’

4 You must try to hate me. I deserve it.’

4 Qji, what’s the good of talking like that? ’ he said im-
patiently. 4 Do you want me to hate you? You know you
don’t/ ,

4 No, I don’t/

4 You know perfectly well I can’t do anything except go
on loving you/

He still leaned with dejected shoulders against the porch,
talking out into the garden. The eastern sky swam brightly,
and the first beams of the sun shot into the garden; and the
fluting clamorous chorus redoubled their enthusiasm.

4 1 haven’t seen the sun rise for years. Have you,
Martin? ’ She came near to him and put a hand on his
sleeve. At the touch he turned round and confronted her
in dumb despair, his eyelashes wet.

4 Martin, I’m sorry, I’m sorry/

4 1 can’t leave you like this/ he said, and clung to her.
4 Judith, is there nothing I can do? ’

She reflected.

4 Yes. Will you do something for me? ’

4 Of course I will/ His eyes lit up for an instant.

4 Listen, Martin. Suppose he ever mentions me ’

She f$lt herself going white and stopped.

4 Yes? ’ he muttered.

She went on breathlessly:

4 1 don’t think he will, but if he should. . . , Supposing
he ever starts to tell you something that happened — between

DUSTY ANSWER

*93

him and me — please, you mustn’t let him. Promise! If he
begins, stop him. I shall never see him aga-i; soon I shall
stop thinking about him: but you mustn't know what
happened. It was just a little silly thing* -I shall see it
quite differently some day . . . but if I thought people
knew I should die. Martin, don’t try to find out.’

c All right, Judith. It’s none of my business.’

* Perhaps men don’t tell things in the awful way women
do?. He doesn’t generally tell things, does lie? ’

She could hardly bear to listen for his reply.

* No. I don’t think so.’

* Make it be as if you’d never known me. Oh, don’t
talk about me ! ’

6 1 won’t. I promise.’ He looked at her; and she knew
by his eyes how deeply she was making him suffer.

After a long time she added:

* One more thing. Of course I know that whatever he’d
done you’d feel just the same towards him, wouldn’t
you? . .

c I love Roddy , . .’he said, his breath, his whole being
struggling in anguish. . . . c I’ve always had him — ever
since I can remember . . . more to me than a brother ever

could have been. But if I thought ’ His voice altered,

grew terrible — ‘ if I thought he’d done you an injury ’

c It was nothing he could be blamed for,’ she said slowly,
with intense concentration: * It was my fault. If I thought
it was going to come between you I should be more unhappy
than ever. Will you see that it doesn’t? ’

* I’ll do my best,’ he said in a dead voice.

She began to tremble violently.

* I must go in now, Martin. What shall you do? ’

* I’ll go straight back. I don’t feel like — seeing Mariella
—or any one.’

* But don’t you want something to eat? ’

c No. I’m not hungry.’

It seemed unbearably pathetic that he should not be
hungry — he who was always hungry.

DUSTY ANSWER

294

‘ Good-bye then, Martin/

‘ Good-bye/

He took her outstretched hand and clutched it.

‘ Judith, if you should want me for anything while
you’re abroad — let me know. I’ll come to you. Will you
promise? ’

c I promise, my dear/

He looked a shade less unhappy.

‘ And please let me see you when you come back. I won’t
be tiresome; but I must see you sometimes/

‘When I come back then, Martin — if you really want
to. <But by that time you’ll realise what a pig I am/

He put his arms round her suddenly.

‘ Oh, Judith/ he whispered, ‘ can’t you ever . . .? ’

‘ Martin, can’t you ever not? ’

‘ No/ He laid his head down on her shoulder for a few
moments; then straightened himself and said with an effort
at cheerfulness:

c Well, I hope you’ll have a good time/
c I hope you will. But you’re sure to/

To think he would be with Roddy for weeks, sharing
work and talk and jokes and meals — seeing him sleep and
wake; while she herself . . . never again. If she saw him
coming towards her, she must turn back; if she passed him
in the street she must look away.

‘ Please take care of yourself, Judith/

She nodded, smiling wearily.

He jerked round and went down the steps and she waited
for him to turn his head again. But, when he reached the
corner, without looking back, he waved his hand in a young
quick awkward pretense of jauntiness, and strode on.

She stood and saw the fresh garden filling with light and
shade; -and thought: ‘ Poor Martin’s crying ’ ; and shut the
door on him and the sun and the screaming of the birds.

DUSTY ANSWER

295

8

The hotels and shops made a circle round t'e great Place;
and to and fro all day went the people to their baths and
douches and sprays. Bilious obese old Jews a ^d puffy, pallid
Americans thronged and perspired; and a icient invalids
came in bathchairs with their glum attendants. There was
one, a woman long past age and change, with 1 skin of dusky
orange parchment, black all round the staring eyeholes, tight
over the cheeks and drawing back the dark lips in a grin.
She was alive: her orange claws twitched on the rug.
Perched high upon her skull, above the dead and rotten hair,
she wore a large black sailor hat trimmed with a wild pro-
fusion of black feathers. Every morning, seated idly in
front of the hotel, Judith watched for that most macabre
figure of all in the fantastical show.

The sun poured down without cloud or breeze, and the
buildings and pavements seemed to vibrate in the air. It
was too hot to stay in the valley. She joined parties and
motored up through the vineyards into the hills — racing
along in search of a draught on her face, eating succulent
lunches at wayside inns, coming back in the evening to play
tennis and bathe; to change and dine and dance; to hear a
concert at the Casino; to sit in the open air and drink coffee
and eat ices.

The hours of every day were bubbles lightly gone.

She was Miss Earle, travelling with her elegant and
charming mother, staying at the smartest hotel and promi-
nent in the ephemeral summer society of the health-resort.
Her odd education sank into disreputable insignificance : best
not to refer to it. She was adequately equipped in other
ways. She had a string of pearls, and slim straight black
frocks for the morning, and delicious white and yellow and
green and pink ones for the afternoon; and white jumpers
with pleated skirts and little white hats for tennis; and, for
the evening, straight exquisitely-cut sleeveless frocks to
dance in. She had them all. Mamma had ordered them

DUSTY ANSWER

296

in Paris with bored munificence and perfect taste, and an
unenthusiastic ear for the modiste’s rapturous approval of
her daughter.

c If you were a little more stupid,’ said Mamma, * you
might make a success of a London season even at this late
date. You’ve got the looks. You are stupid — stupid enough,
I should think, to ruin all your own chances — but you’re
not stupid all through. You’re like your father: he was a
brilliant imbecile. I never intended to put you into the
marriage-market — but I’ll do so if you like. If you haven’t
already decided to marry one of those young Fyfes. . . .
They’re quite a good family, I suppose.’

She appeared to expect no answer and received none.

Judith laughed at Mamma’s «epigrammatic dictums and
was a social success. She motored, chattered, danced and
played tennis, at first with effort — with Roddy rising up
now and again to make all dark and crumbling; then grad-
ually with a kind of enjoyment, snapping her fingers at the
past, plunging full into the comedy, forgetting to stand aside
and watch: silly all through — stupid even: stupider every
day.

Demurely she passed through the lounges: they all knew
her and looked her up and down as she went, discussed her
frocks in whispers, with smiling or stony faces. In the
streets they stared, and she liked it; she admired her own
reflection in the shop windows. An elderly French count,
with two rolls of fat in the back of his neck, entreated
Mamma for her daughter’s hand in marriage. It was a very
good joke.

Then, one evening after dinner, while she sat in the
lounge with Mamma and discussed the clothes of her fel-
low-visitors, she saw Julian walk in. He wore an old white
sweater with a rolled collar, and his long hair was wild
upon his pale chiselled forehead. His face, hands and
clothes were grey with dust, his cheeks flushed and his eyes
bright with extreme weariness. He stood alone by the door,
unself-conscious and deliberate, his gaze roving round to

DUSTY ANSWER

297

find her among the 9taring, whispering company. Even be-
fore she recognized him, her heart had leapt a little at sight
of him; for his fine-drawn blonde length and grace were of
startling beauty after a fortnight of small dapper men with
black moustaches and fat necks.

c It’s Julian! ’

She ran across the room and took his hand in both her
own, joyfully greeting him. A friend from England! He
was a friend from England. How much that meant after
all! He had, romantically, kept his promise and come to
find her, this distinguished young man at whom they were
all staring. He and she, standing there hand in hand, were
the centre of excited comment and surmise: that was flatter-
ing. She was pleased with him for contriving so dramatic
an entry.

He had motored from Paris, he said, going all day over
execrable roads in stupefying heat. He had found her
hotel at the first guess.

He booked a room and went off to have a bath and to
change. Judith went back to explain to Mamma, who asked
for no explanations. It was, she remarked, pleasant to see
a new face; and those Fyfes had always looked well-bred.
She was glad Judith would now have a congenial companion
while she finished her cure. If to her cat-deep self she
said: “So that’s the one! ” her diamond-like eyes did not
betray her.

He came down half an hour later, elegant in his dinner-
jacket, sat down beside Mamma and started at once to enter-
tain her with the easy, civilized, gossiping conversation she
enjoyed.

Then, when the band started to pluck voluptuously at
the heart-strings with Einmal kommt der Tag , he turned for
the first time to Judith, crying:

‘ We’ll dance to it, Judith.’ He jumped up. c What a
tune! We’ll express our sentimentality.’

Mamma’s rasping little laugh of amusement sounded in
her ears as she rose and followed him.

DUSTY ANSWER

298

He put an arm closely round her and murmured:

1 Come on now. Perform! Perform! ’ — and they went
gliding, pausing and turning round the empty floor, while
everyone stared and the band smilingly played up to them.
The rhythm of their bodies responded together, without an
error, to the music’s broken emotionalism.

‘ Once, Julian, you refused to dance with me.’

c Ah, you were a little girl then. It would have been no
use. Et maintenanty rd est-ce-fas , la fetite est devenue
femme? We shall get on very well.

After a silence he said:

‘ You wear beautiful clothes. You carry yourself to
perfection. You have an air. . . . There is nobody in
this room to touch you. What hre you going to do with it
all? ’

‘ Oh, exploit it, exploit it! 9

He held her away from him a moment to look down into
her face.

‘ Tiens! Ticns! Is gentle Judith going to start being
a devil? ... It would be amusing to see her try.’

‘ Oh, I will! I’d be most successful. You shall see.’

He laughed, watching her.

‘May I help you? Shall we tread the primrose path
together? 9

She nodded.

‘ Well, start by looking a little more as if you were going
to enjoy it. Have you ever been happy? No. Whenever
you come near to being, you start thinking: ‘Now I am
happy. How interesting. . . . Am I really happy? 9 You
must learn a little continental abandon — I’ll teach you.’

‘ You! *

* and scornful as well! Oh, Judith, you’re getting

on. I Tike to see your mouth trying to be hard. It has
such pretty points.’

The music stopped, and she disengaged herself. A few
people clapped, and she nodded and smiled to the band . . .
performing, performing; conspicuously self-possessed. • . .

‘ Good! ’ said Julian. ‘ Oh, good! ’

DUSTY ANSWER

* 99

She turned to him and said :

4 Thank you, Julian. That was exhilarating.’

4 Yes, you look as if you’d found it so.’

His eyes, brilliant with nervous fatigue, perced her with
a glance too penetrating.

4 What a pity,’ he said, 4 you’re so unhappy.’

4 If it were so,’ she said, starting to walk back towards
her chair, 4 it would be a pity. ... Or perhaps that would
be exhilarating too.’

4 Oh, don’t be enigmatical with your old friend,’ he said
plaintively.

She laughed and gave him her hand.

4 Good night, Julian. You go to bed. You’re so tired
you can hardly stand upright. To-morrow we’ll start en-
joying ourselves frightfully. You’ll stay a bit, won’t you? ’

4 Oh, I’ll stay,’ he said. 4 I think the moment is aus-
picious for me. . . . Didn’t I always say I could wait my
turn? ’

4 Yes, you said so. You have a flair undoubtedly. You
are full of finesse . . . . Good night.’

She waved a hand and left him.

Something was afoot. . . . He had come casting shad-
ows before and behind him. Old things were stirring: the
old illness of remembering was going to start again. And
ahead was not a glimmer.

9

In that thick, steamy world, in the mingled soils of
sickly heat, bilious faces, rich food, sensual dancing, heavy
scents of women, applied bow mouths, soft perspiring flesh
— sprouted and flourished her response to Julian. Rooted
in reluctance, nourished by his skilful arts, it grew, a curious
plant: stronger and more curious with every stab of re-
awakening memory.

Julian must save her this time : surely his wit and wisdom,
surely the unknown world of sexual, emotional and intellec-

DUSTY ANSWER

300

tual experience which he held so temptingly, just out of
reach — surely these would, in time, heap an abiding mound
upon the past.

Neither by touch nor look did he seem to desire her.
He wove his net with words: he understood her and she felt
him coming closer, a step at a time.

He made himself the perfect companion — gossiping and
exchanging cynicisms with Mamma, executing commissions
for her, his car always at her disposal; taking them to hear
music, to eat delicious meals; playing tennis with Judith and
her hotel acquaintances.

He even went so far as to say tennis was good for his
asthma and played in the tennis-tournament, with herself
for partner; and they were barely defeated in the finals
by the Brazilian brother and sister, amid scenes of hilarious
enthusiasm.

His car was waiting outside the ground to whisk her away
from the hot crowd.

Happy, perspiring, dazed with heat and fatigue, she
climbed in beside him and lay back.

4 We’ll go and find somewhere to bathe,’ he said.

4 Yes! ’

4 And have supper at an inn, and stay out much later than
we ought.’

4 Yes. Oh, Julian, we have done nice things together. I
shall always remember them.’

She put a hand on his knee, and he smiled and nodded, all
simple and brotherly. . . . He had tried his very hardest
to help her win. She was grateful to him for fitting him-
self to her mood.

The car went spiralling up the vine-covered hills, and the
electric air quivered away on each side of them in visible
waves* The sun sank magnificently, without a cloud, a
blood-red lamp. Its rays had long ago passed from the
tortuous, steep and rock-bound way through which they now
went; and a grey-green tranquil coolness blessed every
sense. Then the road ran into profounder, wooded lone-

DUSTY ANSWER

301

liness, and she espied a stream, leaping aj;d plunging in
little falls, far down in the gully below the side of the road.

‘ Stop here, Julian. We must bathe.’

She went springing down towards the w;tter and he fol-
lowed with the bathing suits and towels.

The stream was shallow and broken up with boulders:
no use for bathing.

c Let’s follow it, Julian. We’ll find something, I know.’

Soon it took a turn deeper into the wood's heart, and be-
gan to grow in depth and volume; then all at once plunged
in a smooth gentle cascade into a wide rock basin. There
it had pause, deep and silent, before dropping again at the
basin’s further edge in a sheer plumed column, and racing
on downwards, and downwards again.

c Oh, Julian, what a bathing-pool! Is it possible? Look
at that colour I ask you. Is it limestone? ’

The whole circular sweep of the rock shimmered in
faint silver through the dim bluish depth of water.

c And deep enough to dive into, Julian — if we dare
break into such fairiness. . . . What do you suppose lives
here? It may put a spell on us. ... I don’t care! I
long to be spell-bound. Don’t you think, if one plunged
in, one might come out all silver-blue and cold and gleam-
ing? I’d love to walk through the hotel lounge naked like
that, with long blue dripping hair! Oh, come on, Julian —
let’s both try! I’ve had no luck for ages, have you? Per-
haps it’s turned to-day. You undress here and I’ll go be-
hind this bush and talk to you out of it, like God. Come —
off with our lendings! ’

And, in a flash, with the uttering of the last words,
Jennifer came back, slipping the clothes down off white
shoulder and breast, talking and laughing. A tide of
memories; Jennifer’s head burning in the sunlight, her
body stooping towards the water — the whole of those May
terms of hawthorn blossom and cowslips, of days like a
warm drowsy wine, days bewildered with growing up and
loving Jennifer, with reading Donne and Webster and

DUSTY ANSWER

302

Marlowe, with dreaming of Roddy. . . . Where had it all
gone — Where was Jennifer? — Whom enchanting now? —
How faintly remembering Judith? Compared with that
tumultuous richness, how sickly, how wavering was this
present feeling — what a sorry pretense! Would one ever
be happy again ?

Julian, lean and hairy in his bathing-suit, was already
feeling the water with his toe when she emerged and, spur-
ring her flagging spirits, leapt down through the bushes,
paused a moment beside him, cried * Ah ! ’ and dived into
liquid twilight.

He plunged in after her, and they came up together,
* You shouldn’t have dived like that/ he cried. c Don’t do
it again. There’s a great jag of rock just below where you
went in, — you might have hit your head. You’re a very
naughty girl.’

c Pooh! ’ She splashed and kicked round him, and went
swimming close under the waterfall, feeling its weight
press down and bubble upon her shoulder. The water was
cold: the sun could never reach it save in light flecks through
leafy branches. The pouring of the falls made a soft, full,
lapsing speech. Nothing in the world was so smooth as the
polished silk of their down-curving necks.

‘ Hey! ’ cried Julian.

She looked round and saw him near the further edge of
the basin, trying to save himself from being carried over.
She laughed, but he did not laugh back, and dragged himself
out and sat on a rock in silence; and she saw that his legs
and arms were grazed and bleeding. She went to him re-
morsefully and washed the blood away with palmfuls of
water and sat by him, murmuring little sympathies until the
stinging pain eased. He was not strong, she must remember:
the shock and pain had made him white about the lips.
Poor Julian. . . . How smooth and creamy her limbs
looked beside his. . . .

‘ One more dip before dressing, Julian. You sit there
and rest. *

DUSTY ANSWER

303

He sat and watched while she slipped in again and, lying
on her back, pushed of? vigorously from th** side with both
feet and floated in a great ruffle of water to the other edge.
Then she climbed out and stood opposite him, dripping and
smiling.

Something leapt into his eyes as they r sted, for once,
full on her: not admiration or desire, but something harsh
and hostile, as if the sight of her exasperated him.

‘ Oh, yes, it shows you of? well, 5 he said.

< What does? 5

c Your maillot . I suppose you weren’t aware of it? ’

c No! 5 She spat the word at him; and went quickly
away.

They had supper at a white inn by the edge of the wood,
about half a mile farther on. The same stream flowed,
sedately now, through the garden; and a dark plump
Madame with great glossy raven plaits brought omelettes
and trout and salads and fruits to their table beneath the
plane-tree. Birds were singing the last of their songs in all
the branches.

c Listen, Julian! — if that isn’t a thrush? What is he
doing out of England? Can you imagine a French thrush?
Oh, he sounds homesick! ’ A sudden nostalgia overcame
her. c I want to go home, too ! I’m not a traveller. Sick
for home — that’s what I am. This thrush and our pool are
probably the things I shall most remember about France —
and all because they made me think of England. . . .
There was a girl at College I used to bathe with. . . .
You’d have loved to look at her. Her name was Jennifer
Baird. . . .’

* Oh, I think I’ve met her.’

What was he saying so casually?

‘ You’ve met her? ’ Hands clasped, heart thumping, she
stared at him.

‘ Yes, I’m sure that was the name. I was staying in
Scotland with some cousins of hers.’

DUSTY ANSWER

304

‘ When, Julian? ’

She could scarcely speak.

‘ Last year, I believe. I remember now she was at
Cambridge and said she knew you; but she wasn’t very
forth-coming about you. I’d never have guessed from her
that you were bosom friends.’ His voice sounded mocking.

i No, you wouldn’t! ’ she retorted, stung and scornful.
1 She doesn’t tell just anybody when ’ She checked her-

self; for perhaps after all it had been that Jennifer had not
remembered her much in absence. She added quietly: 4 She
was a person I knew well for a time. Tell me . . . What
did jTou think of her? ’

4 Oh, mad as a hatter. But she was more alive than most
people. A flame, let us say.’ 'His voice was ambiguous,
unkind.

4 You didn’t like her, then? ’

4 No, nor she me.’ He laughed briefly. 4 But she had a
power, I admit. 1 intend to go and find her again some
day. I dare say I might make her — like me.’

4 I don’t think you could! ’ She wanted to strike him for
his cold-blooded self-assurance. 4 If you think you could —
manage her, control her, I pity you, that’s all ! I’d like to
see you try! You’d think you’d got her easily — and then in
another moment she’d have slipped through your fingers.
. . . How I’d laugh! . . . Personally I didn’t need to
make her like me: she just did.’

She felt that she was speaking wildly, and fell silent,
weak before the flooding onslaught of the past.

It was too much pain. What was the use of trying to
go on? You could never get free of the past. It came all
around again at a word, and in a trice all save its shadows
was trivial and insubstantial.

Julian was watching her; raising his eyebrows in a pre-
tense of polite surprise and watching closely.

4 Well, well! ’ he said. 4 Calm yourself, my serpent.
You have convinced me my best endeavours would be
wasted/

DUSTY ANSWER

305

She hid her face, stooping it over the uble with both
hands across her forehead, feeling the nausea and sweat
of faintness.

He helped himself to grapes and remarked:

Not that I shan’t be sorry never to see her on a horse
again. She looked magnificent.’

c Oh, yes! She . . Still with her lace hidden she
added, summoning a faint but steady voice: * I’d go to her
now, this minute, if I knew where she was. But I don’t.’

There was a silence; and then he said gently:

c I’ll find her for you if you like, my dear.’

She stretched a hand across the table to him.

c No. Help me forget her . . . and everything
else. . . .’

He stroked the hand; and without a word left her, to pay
the bill. When he came back she was able to raise a calm
and smiling face to him.

The stars were out when they took the road again, and
the coming dark flowered like a field of pansies.

‘ Hadn’t we better go home now, Julian? ’

c No. I’m not going to take you home yet.’

She sat beside him, silent and dully apprehensive.

* It’s a pity you’re so unhappy,’ said Julian. c I think I
said so before.’

She made no answer.

c You know,’ he said, c you’re a fool to take on like
this.’

Silence.

6 You’re simply destroying yourself over it and it can’t
be worth it. Why don’t you tell me about it? I’ll be nice.’

She shook her head.

c Do tell me, darling. You know, things have a way of
swelling to monsters if we lock them up inside us. You see
if you won’t feel better after you’ve once got it out of you.’
He spoke like a kindly father, and put an arm round her.

c I’m in love with someone,’ she whispered. € That’s all.

DUSTY ANSWER

306

I thought it was finished. . . . Oh, dear, dear, dear, how
awful! . . .’ She drew deep choking breaths.

‘ Poor devil/ he said.

‘ You needn’t be sorry .’ She collected herself. c It’s
good for me. Besides, it is finished really: I scarcely ever
think of it now.’

c Does that yellow-haired female come into it then? ’

‘Jennifer? No. Though she’s gone too . . . and that
makes it all far worse. . . .’ She added quickly: ‘It’s
nobody you know/

His silence told her that he was not deceived.

‘ Anyway,’ she said lightly, c there’s one bad thing over
in my life: falling in love, I mean. I’m free of it! ’

c Oh, don’t be ridiculous, my 'dear child! Don’t be such
a fool! Why, you haven’t mastered your infant primer yet.
1 know! Do you mean to tell me this unknown fellow has
absorbed all your powers of loving to the end of your life?
I’m sorry then: you’re less of a person than I thought you.
Ah, you think I’m mocking, and you hate me. And I do

mock. Yes, yes! And I’m so sorry for you I But

of course you won’t believe that.’

He spoke with passion, slowing the car down till she
scarcely crawled, then finally stopping her altogether by the
edge of the road, beneath an overhanging rocky hillside. It
was getting very dark: she felt rather than saw the tense
expression of his eyes and mouth.

6 You won’t believe that,’ he repeated, 6 and you’re think-
ing at this moment that such a brute as I never before
existed.’

‘ No.’ She felt dazed. c I think you’re meaning to be
kind. But you don’t understand.’

‘ Aha! Of course not. How can a coarse male animal
like myself understand the feelings of a refined and sensi-
tive young lady? ’

‘Oh, Julian — unfair . . . unkind! ’

* Well, damn you, don’t you see I love you myself? ’ he

DUSTY ANSWER

307

cried in a perfect fury. c Here am I, alone with you at last
for a paltry ten days — after waiting years, mind you, years
for my opportunity, and I find you mopin and moaning
over your lost schoolgirl illusions! Good God! Haven’t
you the guts to snap your fingers at a fellow who can’t be
bothered with you? Aren’t you attractive ;.nd intelligent?
Can’t you laugh? Aren’t there plenty of others? What
am I here for? Go to the devil for a bit — I’ll help you.
I’ll see you through it. But don't moan ?

He paused for breath, and went on:

c Here am I, as I said, with ten days of your company as
my limit — ten days in which to make you look back into my
eyes, not through them, to make you stop smiling and being
polite and tolerant and sorry for me — oh, anything rather
than your damned indifference! Why don’t you hate me?
I could do some good with you then. I thrive on hatred.
Here am I, of all people, not able to sleep or eat for want-
ing to kiss you, shaking all over when I see you coming, r ag-
ing when you talk to another man — and here are you, mak-
ing a fool of yourself — obstinately wasting our time mak-
ing a romantic fool of yourself.’

* Well, we’re quits then,’ she interrupted quickly. c I
love without being loved and I’m a fool. I agree with
you. You love without being loved. You’re another.’

He turned to her and said delightedly:

c You’re angry. I’ve stung you up. You’ve lost your
temper.’

c Oh, you’re impossible.’

c No, no, I’m not,’ he said coaxingly. c Look, I’ll be so
nice now. Listen to me, Judy darling. You’re not the
sort of person to have one abortive little romance and go to
your grave an old maid. An old maid who’s had a disap-
pointment, Judy! — isn’t that what it’s called? There, I’m
teasing again and I said I wouldn’t. Darling, what’s the
use of being so damned constant? Do find someone else
quick. You’ve no idea how delightful you’ll find it when

DUSTY ANSWER

308

you’re old to remember what a lot of people you’ve loved.
And it’s the very best remedy, Judy, for your indisposition.’

c Shall you employ it if ’

c If you turn me down? Probably. But don’t turn me
down — not without a trial. Here am I, ready to hand: you
could do a damned sight worse than take me. I’ll see we
have a good time.’

Moths flittered and spun in the light of the head-lamps;
beyond the two still long shafts of brightness the night
looked very dark. How many miles from home?

At length she said:

c I take it this is not a proposal of marriage, Julian.’

He laughed.

c No, my dear, it is not. Nothing so grim.’

i Ah, I see — your mistress.’

Her voice and her words made her wonder if she were
not holding a conversation in a dream: there was the same
feeling of having made a pronouncement of the first im-
portance; but whose meaning you could not detect.

Julian’s mistress. . . . The idea was for some reason
profoundly shocking.

A French, an Austrian, a Russian; and now an English.
. . . But perhaps he had been lying then. He did tell such
lies about his experiences.

‘ I’m not made for matrimony any more than you are,’
he said in a voice of gentle explanation. * Can you imagine
me as a husband? What hell for some poor fool! . . .
Yet,’ he added with a sigh, ‘ I’d be fond of my children.
I’d like to bring up a son. But I shall never have one.’

< If you would marry Mariella,’ she said, still out of her
dream, c you could bring up Peter. She’d like that. I think
she loves you.’

He took no notice; and she wondered if she had not
spoken aloud, after all; or whether her small voice had not
penetrated his absorption.

‘ Why, what would we make of each other married? ’

DUSTY ANSWER

309

he went on, * It would be one long succession of a gage-
menu . We’re both so self-conscious, so fastidious, so civil-
ized. . . . Oh, it would be appalling.’

‘ Yes, it would.’

1 But, Judith, lovely delightful Judith/ he pleaded, his
voice deep and beautiful, 4 for a season, for a season! A
clean leap in, and out again the minute r started to be a
failure. Think what we could give each other! ’

4 It would be very good for us I suppose. . . .’ She
held her head in her hands, trying to think. What could he
possibly give her that she would want?

c It would, it would. We’d live a bit instead of thinking.
I’d make you forget, I swear: and what things I’d give you
to remember instead! — good things that have been my
secrets for years, that I’ve longed for years to share, to offer
to your lovely quick intelligence. No one else has had them,
Judith. They’ve been waiting for you: nobody else has ever
come near you in my mind. Judith, it wouldn’t be the
irritating tiresome old bore you know: that isn’t I! I’ve got
secrets. Let me tell you them. So much beauty I’d enrich
you with, and then I’d let you go. Isn’t that fair? Isn’t
that worth having? Go and marry and breed afterwards if
you must, but let me give you this first. Try me, Judith,
try me. You can’t refuse to try me. I want you so much.’

She wanted to stop her ears: for she felt herself helplessly
yielding to the old syren of words.

4 Julian — I couldn’t give you — what you wanted. Oh, I
couldn’t! It’s such a step — you don’t realise — for a woman.
She can’t ever get back — afterwards, and be safe in the
world. And she might want to.’

4 I’d see you got back if you wanted to. But I don’t
think you will. You won’t want to be safe. That’s not
for you. Oh, Judith, I know you better than you know
yourself.’

‘No. No.’

She was locked away from him and he did not know it.

DUSTY ANSWER

310

What he mistook for her living self was a mummy, with a
heart of dry dust. He had not the perspicacity to see it.

He was silent and then said:

‘ I wouldn’t ask you for anything you — weren’t prepared
to give me. I hope — that might come. But for the present
all I want is to help you liv^ again — in better, more endur-
ing, ways. Will you let me? Will you allow me to love
you, Judith? ’

‘ Perhaps. Perhaps, Julian. I’ll try. I’ll try to love you
too.’ The words broke from her on top of a great sigh.

c My dear! ’ She felt his triumph. He put an arm round
her a*id lightly kissed her, and she thought: c Now I’ve been
kissed by all three of them.’

c But wait, Julian! ’ she protested, near to nervous tears.
* Don’t say any more now. Take me home.’

c Yes, yes. I’ll take you home now.’ His voice was
soothing and tender. He was letting her see that his patience
was infinite. This time, she was caught.

The car glided downwards from the hills into the plain,
through the lovely calm. Once she broke silence to say:

c Nothing’s worth while, Julian? It doesn’t matter what
one does? There’s no point, really, in being alive? ’

He laughed.

4 Poor Judy! Give it up! You’ll have to in time. Re-
sign yourself, and the compensations won’t seem so pre-
posterously inadequate. There was a time. . . . But that’s
past. So long as there’s a balance of happiness I’m con-
tent to be alive. That it’s all futile has ceased to trouble
me. It’s not really difficult to be happy, Judith.’

c Well — you shall show me.’

But she felt crushed with melancholy to hear him; and
his calm voice echoed drearily in her heart.

She bade him good-night in the empty lounge, and went
upstairs to the bedroom’s rose and gilt harshness.

She was going to be Julian’s mistress. . . . He was sure
of her: she had noted his triumphant eyes and smiling mouth

DUSTY ANSWER

311

when he said good night. . . . Perhaps f she had offered
to be Roddy’s mistress he would have ag?eed with alacrity.
He too was not made for matrimony.

She wished suddenly for Martin and sat down and started
a letter to him; gave up after a few sentences, too heavy-
minded to think; and went to bed.

10

The next day was jour de fete: there were to be grand
balls, carnivals and exhibition-dancing in all the hotels.

‘ We’ll make the round of them, Judy,’ said Julian.
c And afterwards we’ll take the car and go up into the hills
— shall we? ’

And she thanked him and agreed.

He was debonair, gay and gracious: the lines in his face
seemed to have been smoothed out, and the likeness to
Charlie was strongly in evidence.

Dreaming ahead, she saw herself reluctantly, helplessly,
plunging further and further into relationship with him.
He would not weary of her soon. When once the thing
started, the break with the past would inevitably be complete.
Together they would be reckless, free; together they would
snatch pleasure out of life’s worthlessness; for Julian had
promised faithfully that he was going to give her exactly
what she wanted, that he had learnt precisely how happiness
was to be come by, and would teach her. . . . She had
given him leave to teach her.

Judiciously he absented himself for the day; and she spent
the morning with Mamma, watching all the internally-
disordered people pass, cup in hand up and down the Place
from spring to spring; and the afternoon with Mamma at
the dressmaker’s; and the hours between tea and dinner with
Mamma in the hotel-lounge, drearily banishing and re-
curring to thoughts of Roddy.

Mamma sent her out to buy a copy of the Continental
Daily Mail, which shrill-voiced women were excitedly ad-

DUSTY ANSWER

312

vertising in the Place . Through her lorgnette, Mamma
scanned the announcement of recent arrivals, the political
outlook, the new French train smash, yawned, remarked
that the holiday season in England seemed marked as usual
by murders and drowning fatalities, yawned again and went
upstairs to rest before her bridge-party.

An hour yet till dinner and nothing to do but sit and
think of things.

Idly she picked up the evilly printed sheets. Trifle
Boating Tragedy . Why were they always triple? What
must it be like to be relatives and friends of a triple boat-
ing tragedy? But that was a class disaster, like a charabanc
death — not general.

Sailing Fatality of St. Catherine’s y Isle of Wight . That
was where Martin and Roddy were yachting. They might
have witnessed it. Tragic End of Well-known Young
Y achtsman.

She had an impulse to put down the paper; but a name
caught her eye and she had to go on reading.

A dense fog in the Channel is f resumed to he the cause
of the death of Mr. G . M . St. V . Fyfc y one of the best
known of the younger Solent yachtsmen .

According to information at f resent available y Mr.
Fyfe y who was an exfert sailor and swimmer y had been
out since early morning of the — th sailing his small cut-
ter “ Sea Pink >y single-handed . A bout noon a heavy sea-
fog drove up from the channel with great suddenness and
in the evening his friends became alarmed at his failure
to return. Next morning a life-buoy and some other
wreckage identified as belonging to Mr. Fyfe’s boat was
found washed up on the shore near Brooke. It is thought
that the boat must have been run down by a liner or other
large vessel of St. Catherine’s Head during the fog of
the previous afternoon. The body has not yet been re-
covered .

DUSTY ANSWER

313

Mr . G. M. St. V. Fy fe y who was twenty- four years o f
agc y was the only son of the late Sir John Fyfe } K.C.B.,
and of Lady Fyfe of the Manor Bouse, Fernwood y
Hants . Educated at Eton and Trinity College y Cam~
bridge y he was among the most . . .

There followed a few more words, mt the type was
illegible.

It could not be Martin, because he was Mr. Martin Fyfe.
Martin’s initials were — O God! — forget you knew his
initials. She could see them now written in her own hand
on an envelope: G. M. St. V. Fyfe, Esq. Such dignified,
satisfying initials. ... It could not be Martin because
an unfinished letter to him was lying upstairs waiting to be
sent. Martin was sailing safely with Roddy and one or two
others. He would not sail a cutter single-handed in a fog,
because that was so dangerous; and he never did dangerous
things.

The body had not yet been recovered. . . .

If she read the thing through again calmly she would
realize it was somebody else.

Perhaps better not.

Just the date though. ... Two days old, this thing was
now. . . . Mr. G. M. St. V. Fyfe — Martin Fyfe — Martin
had been nothing for two days. . . .

She thought: If I pretend I never saw it, it will be just as
if it hadn’t happened. I won’t know it, and then it’ll stop
being true.

She folded the newspaper carefully, took it and went
upstairs; and dressed for dinner with meticulous care. She
was going to dine with Julian at the hotel which promised
the best exhibition dancing; and she had agreed to wear his
favourite frock to-night.

It was a very rich and expensive dinner that Julian had
ordered; and a bouquet of red carnations lay beside her
plate. Lobster and champagne. What a crowd of excited

DUSTY ANSWER

314

people! Bare flesh was very ugly, and all those waved heads
of women were intolerable. The monotony of faces in a
crowd! . . .

Julian was studying her covertly, with flickering glances,
though his attention was ostensibly for the company. He
drank restlessly: the lines in his face were very marked.
She would say something to him about the monotony of
faces in a crowd; and then something about waved hair.
After that she said:

‘Julian, does anybody know you’re here? ’

‘ No, not a soul.’

‘ You left no address? 5

‘ No. Paris is my headquarters. When I go off like this
I prefer that the great world should await my return, not
follow me.’

£ Ah, you’re wise.’ She laughed. c It must make you
feel so free.’

‘ Why did you ask? ’

‘ Because it just occurred to me.’

Because they might have sent him a telegram: he was the
eldest of the family, and they might have wanted him for
all sorts of reasons: for the funeral. . . . But the body had
not yet been recovered. Soon she must say to him: ‘ Julian,
Martin has been drowned.’ He would not much mind*,
they had never been very intimate: but of course they had
shared that blood-intimacy of the circle. She must really
tell him soon.

They were dancing now. The room was full of smoke
and light and sickly scent; and the heat was choking. Every-
body was rising to dance.

One of the American young men from her hotel was
bowing and murmuring in front of her.

‘ Not’ just now, thank you so much.’ She flashed a smile
at him. ‘ Perhaps later on. . . .’

Oh, the queer marionettes bobbing up and down in their
mechanical motions! How could people look so serious

DUSTY ANSWER 3 1 5

and perform such imbecile antics? But they were not real
people.

£ Look, Julian, there’s the Spanish boy we played against
in the tournament. He’s good-looking, isn’t he? He’s sim-
ply enrapturing that girl. Hasn’t he got .. lazy smile? . . .
You know, however ugly a French worn n’s body is at any
rate it is a body and she’s not ashamed of t. Those English
people are just bundles of clothes. If y >u undressed them
there’d be nothing. That’s the whole diference. . . . Oh,
look, they’re giving out favours. Oh, I’d like a fan. Let’s
dance.’

Threading her way through the crowded tahles, she passed
a party of fat elderly Frenchmen and heard one say to
another, loudly and with drunken excitement:

( Mats regarded done un feu! En blanc — vois tu? Elle
est bien y celle-la. C y est tout a fait mon tyfe.*

Their faces leered at her out of a dream.

Julian took her once round the room and then looked
down at her and said:

‘ You can’t dance to-night. What’s the matter? ’

She gazed at him in dread, dumb. There was a reason.
Soon — soon she would have to tell him; and then, when it
had been spoken, imparted, it would be true for ever and
ever. Not yet.

After a little while Julian held her as if he had ceased to
expect or desire any response or rhythm from the lumpish
wooden body he had to push. It was no good trying to keep
things going much longer. . . . All things were coming
waveringly to an end. The end would come with her own
voice saying: “ Martin has been drowned.” After that
there would be a breaking-up and confusion, a going away
to hide. . . . Not yet.

The dancing competition had started, amid loud laughter
and applause. The couples, gradually thinning out, circled
self-consciously. The little soft-eyed half-caste brother
and sister — they were the ones. Their bodies were lithe and

DUSTY ANSWER

316

flat and sinuous, their proudly-carried small heads shone like
black water, their eyes and lips were dreamy, sensual, sad,
their limbs made poetry and music as they moved. They
agreed, as prize-winners, to dance an exhibition dance.

Blushing, her teeth sparkling in a smile, she glided from
the other end of the room towards her brother. He gave
her his hand, she paused with a swirl of her long full yellow
skirt, — and then they started swaying and circling together.
They whirled; stopped dead; whirled again. He lifted her
in the air and there she hung poised, laughing at him, point-
ing her tiny foot, then dropped like a feather and went
weaving on.

Oh, let them dance for ever! While they danced, people
could die, gently, easily, as a dancer sinks to earth, without
pain to them or horror to others. Let them dance for ever!

. . . It was over. Hand in hand they curtsied and bowed,
and ran off the floor.

c That was dancing,’ said Julian. c Nobody but each
other to dance with, you see, poor little devils. That’s the
way to learn.’

Roddy would have danced with that soft-smiling side-
long-glancing little dancer: he would have made a point of
it, not out of pity. Martin would have left her alone with
quiet distaste.

Then , in a flash , saw the sea try
With savage wrath and efforts wild
To smash its rocks with a dead child .

To smash its rocks with Martin.

Everybody was very gay now. Through the smoke, all
the eyes and mouths laughed, excited with wine and danc-
ing. Balloons and favours waved; the band blared. The
musicians donned false noses and moustaches and stood up,
leaping and shouting.

Oh } this place is Hell!

Yes, Hell. Grimacing faces, obscene bodies, chattering

DUSTY ANSWER 317

parrot and monkey voices; Hell’s musicians, with vicious
tunes and features dark with unmentionable evil. . . .

The lights were dimmed, the floor cle ared. A dancing
girl leapt into the middle of the space, throwing flowers.
Her white ballet skirts spun mistily. Ti e lights were ex-
tinguished altogether, and you saw that tfie outline of her
bodice and her skirts, her shoe-buckles and the star on her
forehead had been painted with luminous paint; so that now
she was three stars and some circles and loops of light,
wheeling fantastically in the dark.

Now was the time to slip out. Julian would not notice.

Half-way across the Place he caught her up.

€ Where are you going? ’

c There’s something I must show you. Come with me.’

He followed in silence, into the hotel, upstairs, into the
sitting-room.

c Wait there, then. I’ll come back.’

She saw that she was carrying a purple balloon. She
dropped it and watched it go bouncing like a great bubble
across the room.

In the bedroom she found the letter in the folds of the
blotter. < What a silence , Martini I have been missing
you. . . Aghast, she tore it in shreds.

Now to go back to Julian.

He was standing in the middle of the room, waiting.

c Julian, what are Martin’s initials? ’

He thought.

1 Something St. V. — G. M. St. V. — George Martin St.
Vincent.’

He raised his eyebrows — but grew pale.

4 Ah, yes.’

The paper lay on the window-seat; she went to get it.
c Take it away and read. There, where I’ve marked it.’
She made a cross with her thumbnail.

She went back to the bedroom and locked the door; and,
after a few minutes, heard him going downstairs again.

Then she flung herself upon the bed, weeping for Mar-

DUSTY ANSWER

318

tin whom she loved: whom she had left crying for her
sake; who should have lived to be loved by his children,
and honoured and full of years; Martin who was kind when
all else was unkind — Martin who had been dead two days,
rolling about in the waves; Martin for whom poor Roddy
had searched the sea in vain ; Martin who had been comely
and now was destroyed utterly and made horrible, — sea-
water in his mouth and eyes and hair, sea- water swelling his
shapely body to a gross lump.

Whom had he thought of while he drowned? Had he
fought and cursed? Or had he welcomed death because of
somebody’s unkindness and deceit?

< Martin, I didn’t mean it.’

Martin was almost in the r&om — quite in the room —
standing just behind her, saying: “ I’m all right.” He had
come to comfort her.

Martin had entered into everlasting life. Yes!

No. No. No. Dead. Unconscious. Nothing. Be-
yond sight and touch for ever.

PART FIVE

PART FIVE

i

I T was the end of September. She had come home again,
alone. Morning, noon and evening she sat about or
wandered by herself, and watched the coloured procession
of the days. Chill mornings wrapped in bluish mist broke
softly towards mid-day, bloomed into shining pale yellow
afternoons, died early, wistfully, in mjsts again, in grey
dews shimmering upon the leaf-strewn lawn and the fallen
apples, in motionless massed pomp of foliage burning softly
beneath sunsets of muffled crimson, in moonrises strange
with a bronze light.

The river lay stretched like a silken substance, with an
oil-smooth sheen upon its dark olive surface; and all the
poplars and willows upon the bank grew both ways — into
the air, and down through the water with their long trunks
shortened and their brightness tenderly blurred.

Next door, the shutters were up, and the copper beech
dropped its leaves upon the deserted lawn.

In that deep-weighing, windless, mellow hush, alone in
the house and garden, by the river, and on the hill, she saw
all things begin to turn lingeringly, richly towards their
end; and, at long last, felt in herself the first doubtful stir
of new awakening.

Mamma had not come home. She was in Paris now, and
was to remain there for the present.

She had been kind on that morning, when Judith had
come to her bedside, told her that Julian had gone, that
Martin was dead and that she herself was not feeling very
well. She had asked not a single confidence, spoken no
word of pity, but with merciful everydayness looked after
her, revived her body with the practical comfort of brandy
and hot-water bottles; and then, the next day, abandoned
her cure and taken her away. They had motored all over
France and into Italy and Switzerland; and Mamma, be-

321

DUSTY ANSWER

322

tween long intervals of silence, had talked light sharp sur-
face talk of the places and people they encountered, of food
and clothes: talk that could be listened to with adequate at-
tention and answered with ease. Through the close wrap-
ping of lead upon her mind Judith had understood the de-
liberate and painstaking scheme of help, and been grateful
fbr it. But when, after three weeks, Mamma started to
make plans for an autumn together in Paris, Judith had
suddenly asked to be allowed to go home. It was the first
spontaneous impulse from a mind diseased, so it had seemed,
beyond hope of revival. Sluggishly it stirred, but it re-
mained: she must go home, be alone, find work, write a
book, some tiling. . . . Acquiescing, Mamma had not been
able to conceal her relief. What a bore these weeks must
have been for her!

Judith saw England once more with the senses of one
waking before dawn exhausted from a nightmare, appre-
hending reality with shrinking and confusion, and then,
gradually, with a faint inflowing of relief, of hope in the
coming of the light.

Each morning she thought:

“ To-day I will begin to write — start practicing again —
apply through College for some post. . . .”

But each evening found her still folded in the golden
caressing solitudes of the garden, mindless and inert. There
was no subject that could conceivably provide material for a
book; no music that was not far too difficult to learn to
play; no post that did not seem entirely distasteful.

Then, one afternoon, she paused by the grand piano, hesi-
tated, opened it and sat down to play — Schumann, Chopin,
Brahms, Debussy, Ravel ... a little of each, stumbling,
giving up, going on again. At the end of two hours she
stopped.* At first her hands had not obeyed her; but after a
time they had begun to remember, she had forced them to
remember a little. She must practice scales and exercises: it
was too humiliating to be at the mercy of stiff clumsy
fingers.

DUSTY ANSWER

323

She looked round the drawing-room and saw that it was
empty of flowers. She took a basket and went out into the
misty sharp-smelling garden and gathered dahlias and late
roses. The flower petals seemed to care s her cheek as she
stooped to them, the stalks to yield gladh and fall towards
her. They loved and welcomed her. She chose, picked,
stroked them, held them against her fate with voluptuous
delight in their colour, form and texture. It was thrilling,
living alone and gathering flowers.

She looked around her, up at the sky. The evening was
like Jennifer.

She went in to put her flowers in water.

Sheaves of cut lavender still lay drying on newspaper in
the little room where the vases were kept. She finished
stripping the brittle stalks, dividing the fragrant dried bluish
heaps of buds and pouring them into bowls. The feel of
lavender held in the palms and sifting through the fingers
was delicious.

That day, years ago, when Roddy had come to tea, he
had plunged both hands into a bowl of lavender in the
hall and then buried his nose in them with a long ‘ Ah ! *
of satisfaction. This very famille rose bowl she was filling
had been the one. She had said that, when the fresh lav-
ender was ready, she would make him lavender bags to
keep among his ties and handkerchiefs. . . . How long
ago! . . .

She longed for Roddy suddenly with a new and unen-
venomed pang: she thought of him with tenderly regretful,
half-maternal sorrow. He too would be lonely now. She
would have liked to give him lavender, to walk with him
in the autumn garden, quietly talking, sharing with him
its loveliness and tranquillity. She would have liked to
show him she wanted nothing now save to take his hand
and tell him that she was sorry for him; that they must
be friends now, always, remembering whom they had both
loved.

The evening post came just as she had finished disposing

DUSTY ANSWER

324

the bowls of lavender about the house. It brought a letter
from Julian.

Judith,

Now that I know that my moment is over and will
never come again, I must speak to you these last few
words; and then be silent. If you reply to me, I beg you
not to say you hope we may still be friends. We may
not. I am not one who has friends.

That night I went from you and from that vile town
raging, cursing God and man. I had been thwarted,
so^I thought, by a monstrous trick of chance in the very
hour of my life’s most delicious triumph. I never could
endure failure, as you know. f I have generally succeeded
in getting what I wanted. I have been very successful.
That is because I am such a supreme egoist; and because
in spite of all my window-dressing and general ambiguity
and deceitfulness I don’t — often — deceive myself. I
know very well what I want: I go straight for it in spite
of my path’s apparent twists and deviations; and indeed,
indeed, Judith, I wanted you. I say to myself: ‘Fool!
There are plenty of others worth the wanting; ’ and
yet — and yet it does not seem so. No! Despite a life’s
endeavours, I am not proof yet against the slings and ar-
rows. And when at last they do cease to assail me, it
will, I begin to fear, be merely because I have become
moribund, not philosophical.

God, I raged! — against Martin for dying, against you
for being so foolish as to care, against myself for being
made uncomfortable and ridiculous; for I was ridiculous
in my own eyes because I had declared myself — shewn
all my cards and lost.

Nqw I have become sane again.

Looking back on it all, I think (with surprise) that I
was mistaken. It never would have done. You were
not for me, or I for you. I never could have made you
passionate — and that was essential. You are all dark and

DUSTY ANSWER

3 2 5

flat. If anything flashes in you it flashes hidden: you
never would have let me warm all mysrlf at you. I see
now how you would have given me noth ng but the polite,
faintly curious attention which I ha\ * had from you
since our first meeting. It would ha e been a tedious
game trying to knock a spark out of yo u I should soon
have wearied of it. But before that I should have hurt
you. I am a not unaccomplished mental sadist. It would
not have done either of us much good.

About Martin: I thought you would like to know.
They found his body on the beach two days later; and
took him home and buried him beside his father. He
had been cheerful all the time, enjoying his sailing; and
went out in high spirits on the day of the accident. You
must not grieve about him. He doesn’t know he was
young and loved life and now can’t love it any more.
He won’t get old and past loving it. He’ll never miss
dead friends and lovers and long in vain to follow them.
Fortunate Martin to die before he wanted to. . . .
But there! These are empty consolations. I also loved
my Martin. We shall never see him again. It’s little
comfort to tell ourselves we shall stop missing him when
we’re dead too. I am told his mother is calm and cou-
rageous, fortified by a complete faith in a loving God.
Roddy I saw at the funeral, but had little speech with.
He looked unhappy. A brief note I had from him yes-
terday, concerning the disposal of some of Martin’s
things, remarks that it is easily the worst thing that’s ever
happened. This is the only comment he has made or is
likely to make — to me at least. He will get over it. He
is now in Scotland with friends, shooting. I give you
these tidings of him because I surmise that — you will
like to have them. But I know nothing of all that . . .
nor do I wish to know. . . .

Ah, Judith, in spite of all I am very romantic and
sentimental, and I say to myself that I have my memo-
ries; and they cannot be taken from me. You were very

DUSTY ANSWER

charming, very kind and tolerant. We did some good
things together — good vivid things: though I suppose
the fact of my physical presence never made them to
you what yours made them to me: a superb excitement
and intoxication. Twenty years hence when you’re long
since married and have indulged your deplorable philo-
progenitiveness, and are stout, Judith, stout, comfortable,
domestic, I shall write one sentence upon a blank page
and send it to you:

Do you remember an inn , Miranda,

* Do you remember an inn ?

and perhaps — for one instant — you will stir in your
fat and almost, almost remember? . . . But no! There
spoke indeed the sentimental egoist. For the inns you
remember will not be those you visited with me; and you
have made it clear — haven’t you? — that I may never call
you Miranda. Besides, for my own part, like enough I
shall by then have forgotten the amenities of bathing and
omelette-eating and motoring by night, and disremem-
bered all my apt quotations. You will be a placid matron
and I a guant, stringy and withered madman : one of the
kind with livid faces and blazing eyes, who dog young
women down lonely lanes. So never more , Miranda ,
never more . . . .

I read this through, my Judith, and I say to myself:
words, words, words! And I think: for whom, for
whom shall the close dark wrappings of your mind be laid
aside and all the flame come leaping out? I sit and con-
sider how in all these years I never so much as kindled
a little glow to warm my hands at; and dream of how
happily things might have fallen out if I hadn’t been as
I am, and all had been different; and I feel lonely and
wonder what I shall do without you. Don’t for God’s
sake pity me. I shall forget you. But oh, Judith! you

DUSTY ANSWER

327

were lovely to me: never quite real. And still, still per-
sists this ridiculous feeling that I should like to do some-
thing for you. There is nothing, I suppose?

Next month I go to Russia. For what purpose? I
know not. To hear some music, and learn a smattering
of the language ; to write newspaper rticles (“Impres-
sions of an Unprejudiced and Unofficial Wanderer”),
to pick up a few acquaintances, to forget you; to con-
tract, perchance, some disease and die nf it. ... At all
events, to Russia I go. Farewell.

J- F.

2

That night she woke from a deep sleep and knew that
Martin was dead: not an object of horror tossed about
decaying by the waves; not a thing alive somewhere in some
nightmare form, appalled at its own death, watching, ac-
cusing, reproaching, desiring, reading the secrets of her
heart; not a Martin going on obliviously in another, beatific
life — but a dead man whose end had chanced upon him
swiftly and mercifully, whose bones were in their grave
beside his father’s, quietly mingling with the earth he loved.
Martin had not died out of spite, or because her crookedness
and Roddy’s had somehow wrought upon him like an evil
charm and driven him to be drowned. He had been in high
spirits, full of interest in which she had never played a part
and so could never spoil; and in the midst of his enjoyment
he had died. Drowning was a good death, so people said.
Now neither happiness nor unhappiness was possible to him
any more: that was all death meant. He had loved her, and
now she was nothing to him ; he was insensible to her re-
morse and her regrets. She dared at last to sink in that
deep well of sorrow; but its waters were pure now, and in
the end she drew herself from them refreshed.

To-morrow she would be able to write to Martin’s
mother.

328

BUSTY ANSWER

3

She wrote, briefly; and when she had finished, the paper
was spotted here and there with irrepressible hot tears; but
they were for Martin’s mother. She would never shed any
more for Martin now.

She dried her eyes and wrote to Julian.

My dear,

I was extraordinarily glad to get your letter. I thought
I had lost you as well as everybody else. You have done
something for me, Julian: the thing I thought no one and
nothing could do. You have made my imagination stop
shrieking like a fiend in hell»about Martin. It’s not only
what you so wisely say about a young man’s death: it’s
the knowing that he was found again, and buried in the
earth as he wanted to be: that he isn’t a derelict, our
beloved Martin, in the unfriendly sea. It has all stopped
being monstrous to me; it is a natural grief and now I can
bear to live again. He was in love with me and I was
unkind to him and longed too late to tell him I never
meant to be. That was the trouble. But it is all over
now.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for what
you have told me of Martin — and of Roddy whom I shall
never see again, to whom I may not write and say how
I grieve for his sake. You have done a great thing for
me: so now it will be easier than ever — won’t it? — to dis-
miss me from your mind.

Oh, Julian, you wrote to me in a softened mood.
Now you are regretting it, perhaps, or laughing at your-
self and me. No, it never would have done. You imag-
ined me : you say so yourself. Thank your stars you were
spared the boringness, or worse, of seeing me come true.
What coils and glooms and sickened moods poor Martin
perhaps saved us! But I hope and believe we’d have
ended it and parted, laughing, before we’d even thought

DUSTY ANSWER 329

of crying. I wish you much success and joy with all the
not-impossibles who are to follow me.

What a year this has been, and h« w we grow up!
Shall I really never see you again? It would be bathos
after the elegant farewells we are now exchanging: but
it may happen.

My harmless Julian, you would n> t dog a fly — let
alone young women in lonely lanes. } do like you very
much and I have the greatest respect for the high quality
of your morals, and if I die a widow with lots of children
I shall bequeath them all to you to bring up. You will
have so many of your own that a few more will make no
difference. Think how happy you’ll be instructing, ad-
monishing and advising them.

What of Peter and of Mariella? — sad, strange, lov-
able Mariella and her child? Their pathos weighs upon
me; but I can do nothing. Only you can y Julian . I
should have liked news of them. Rumour has it that the
house next door is to be put up for sale.

I am all uprooted, and don’t know what I shall do.
I must begin to make plans. I suppose I shall never
emerge from obscurity in any way. I used to think it a
certainty that I should. I see you smile unkindly.

Yes, I will be Miranda to you, Julian. What we
shared meant as much to me, in a different way, as it did
to you; and it will never come again.

Perhaps there will never be any more inns, with any-
body, in my life. Enchantment has vanished from the
world. Perhaps it will never come back, save in memory.
Perhaps I shared with you the last gleam I shall have of it.

Judith.

4

Martin’s mother answered, in a large, old-fashioned
feminine handwriting, by return of post.

DUSTY ANSWER

330

Dear Judith,

Of course I remember you. I do not forget pretty and
charming people with sweet voices; and as a friend of
Martin’s you are dear to me, as all his friends are, be-
cause they were responsible for so much of his happiness.
It was kind of you to write. I miss my darling boy
every moment of the day. Never was a better son born.
But he would not have wished me to grieve, and so I try
not to. He is in God’s keeping and I feel him very
near to me; please God there will not be many years
in store for me before he and I and his dear father are
reunited.

It is a great comfort to think how happy his life was.
His nature was all sun, and from his birth till the day he
was taken from us I verily believe not a cloud came over
him. Should not that console us?

Thank you again, dear Judith, and believe that Mar-
tin’s mother remembers you affectionately.

Eleanor Fyfe.

“ Not a cloud came over him.” She would believe that
and smile, ageing, stricken, lonely as she was, till her life’s
end.

Perhaps after all it was so. Perhaps he had not allowed
one woman’s petty favours and denials to make a shadow
across the large and perpetual sunshine of his way. How
little, after all, they had been together, how few words
exchanged; how insignificant a figure she must have been,
when all was said and done, among all the figures in his
thousands of days!

Slowly, the darkness was lifting. Soon now, Jennifer’s
letter must come, and a new beginning dawn out of this
end of all things.

5

It came, one morning when the first gale had started
to sweep in upon the season’s painted picture; a day when

DUSTY ANSWER 33 1

lights, shadows, leaves and wings of birds moved, flew,
shone, flickered, paused in a restless harmony.

Darling,

Somediing makes me write to you now. I have often
nearly started and then given it up, but now it feels as if
I must, it feels rather like an evening that perhaps you
don’t remember but I do, when I had to come and see you
after not having been able to for ages — that time you
were ill.

I have felt such a sort of disgrace to myself, and you,
and College, and English girlhood, going away like that,
that I decided I’d better keep quiet for a bit. I couldn't
write. But now I must. Have you been waiting and
waiting for a letter, and thinking I’d forgotten you?
Darling, I haven’t forgotten you. Perhaps you’ve for-
gotten me. But I don’t think so. It is most damnably
difficult writing to you. As you see, this is more illegible
even than usual with the effort. College does seem so
far away. Higher Education for Women never did me
any good — except it gave me you and you are an angel
and so lovely. I feel very old and different. You remem-
ber my hair — you liked it — I have had it all cut off.
Just because Geraldine’s was short I thought I must have
mine the same. Just like me. Mother can’t get over it,
she now thinks my morals are past praying about, which
is a step in the right direction. It all waves and curls and
it is marvellous to be without the weight of it and the
bloody hairpins prodding my scalp under hats. I thought
getting rid of it would be a good way to cut off the past
as well. I thought I’d be a different person, more adapted
to Geraldine, if I did it. And anyway I couldn’t bear
her brushing it after you. You remember Geraldine.
It was because of her I left College.

Darling, do you hate me now, you ought to. Oh, that
last term and the night when I said good-bye to you.
I try never to think about it, because it makes me feel

332 DUSTY ANSWER

so awful. I promised I’d explain everything, didn’t I,
but it’s not much easier now than then because I suppose
whatever’s been happening to you you’re still an innocent
baby, while I feel like the most corrupt disreputable I
don’t know what. Have you had a tremendous love-
affair yet? I always used to think there was a man you
were on the verge of loving. Perhaps he’s made you
understand by now what it really means being in love. I
loved you frightfully from the very first. I used to think
about you night and day. I was in a fever about you. I
began to be absolutely afraid of my feelings for you, they
were so extremely strong. I couldn’t understand them.
Then I met Geraldine, and I realized a lot of things.
You know what I am — she swept me off my feet. I was
too excited to think. She dazzled me. I simply let
everybody and everything else go. And all the time I
loved you more than ever . You may not believe it but it’s
true. But I couldn’t explain to you how I felt — I didn’t
care. You’d have hated it really, wouldn’t you? You
are pure and ethereal and I am not. Nor was Geraldine.
You used to look after me and kiss me as if you were my
mother (not really mine of course, who is quite awful,
one of those lipless women. I suppose Nature wanted to
readjust the balance of mouth and that accounts for
mine.) I got into such a ghastly muddle over it all, I
thought the best thing I could do was to go away. Geral-
dine clung rather — I knew she’d always be coming up,
and I didn’t want her and you to meet, I knew she’d be
jealous (she’s the most jealous person I ever knew). And
I saw things could never be happy between you and me
again. Oh, it was a hellish muddle. It doesn’t bear
thinking of. I had to go away and try and forget. Just
like" me. I’m such a coward. I went abroad with her
and she gave me a marvellous time, I must say. I was
absolutely fascinated by her to start with, almost hypno-
tized, and we went all over Europe. You know I can’t
help more or less enjoying life frightfully, especially

DUSTY ANSWER

333

when it’s being rather wild and queet — and it was. But
then one or two people I met fell in love with me and I
suppose I fell a bit in love with them, I always do, and
she got jealous and more and more full of accusations
and reproaches. I was so sick of her I could hardly bear
to look at her. She never could see a joke. So in the end
I left her and came home. She got * on writing me re-
proachful letters, but I don’t answei them.

Oh, dear, you seem to be very far away from me now.
I shall never find anyone who understands like you again.
Why did you ever waste your time over me? I’m rotten
and I always shall be. As you see I’m at home now, but
I shan’t stay long. There are far too many raised eye-
brows and disapproving chins about. I’m only waiting
till I can raise some money and then I expect I’ll go
abroad again. I always prophesied I’d come to a bad end,
didn’t I? I seem to like nearly all the vices.

I suppose we shall never meet again. What’s the
good? You’re probably full of new things and people
by now, and I daresay I’m changed for the worse. Quite
a Fallen Woman. And you wouldn’t like me any more.
I simply couldn’t face it. But write to me once and tell
me everything. Tell me if you understand. Tell me I
was right to go away. Oh, I’d like to be back with you in
Cambridge — just for a day, even for an hour — just you
and me. There’ll never be anything like that, again.

Darling, have you cut off your hair I wonder. It was
lovely too, parted in the middle, so smooth and thick
and dark purple. You can’t have changed it. You will
never change, will you, only get more and more deep and
clear and yourself. I shall change, but you must always
remember I love you.

Jennifer.

She sat down clasping the letter between her palms, feel-
ing the familiar glow steal over her, rising from the very
sheets close-written in that sensitive erratic hand. Now,

DUSTY ANSWER

334

while her heart still beat with relief, joy, surprise, now
while Jennifer seemed to have drawn near once more of
her own accord, to be enquiring, holding out hands, hinting
that she needed her — now it seemed plain at last what was
to come. Whatever Jennifer had done, would do, they two
must be together again.

She took up a pen and wrote.

My darling,

I knew your letter would come, because I wanted it so
badly.

There are no new things and people. There is noth-
ing. I haven’t got on very well without you and being
happy seems to belong to a far-back time when you wore
a green straw hat with a wreath of pink clover.

You have explained everything at last. Thank you,
darling. Perhaps if we had both explained things more
to each other, there wouldn’t have been such blanks and
failures.

I am at home, alone, wondering, like you, what to do
next. I am quite free. I want to be with you again.
Let us meet and think of something to do together, I
shall go to Cambridge for a day at the beginning of next
term. Meet me there. I’d hate to find you again for the
first time in a different setting, I promise not to remind
you of the past or of things you want to forget. I too
only want to see a future now.

I am living in an utter solitude, which is thrilling but
insidious. This time of year always reminds me of you.
I wish you were here to bathe at mid-day, when the haze
is warm and golden, to share my fruity meals, and drift
on the cold white-misted moony river after dark.

Tell me a date and I will come.

To think of you without your hair! Mine is exactly
as it used to be.

Judith.

BUSTY ANSWER

335

6

Some days later, the same post brou^ it two letters. One
was Jennifer’s answer, scribbed all t it illegibly across a
half-sheet of note-paper, dashed off, it emed, in wild haste.

Oh, it would be too lovely to sei you again, darling.
I can’t seem to make plans, or think at all. You arc
alone and you sound as if you had been so terribly un-
happy. Oh, poor darling. Yes, it would be marvellous to
do something together, but what? You know you know
you know what I’m like. Why do you want to be both-
ered with me again. Remember how miserable I made
you. But I must see you again — just to set eyes on you
again would be heavenly. October 24th. Will that suit
you. I will come to our tea-shop where we always went.
Sit in the front room in the corner under the window.
I’ll come for you there about four o’clock. Don’t wait
for me after 5. I shall get there by car somehow. I
thought if I didn’t come till the afternoon it would give
you time to go out to College and see people if you want
to. 1 don’t want to. Perhaps we could stay the night
somewhere. What do you think. I can’t say anything
more definite than this. I will try to get there punctually.
But if I wasn’t there — (here several words were so
thickly inked over as to be indecipherable — and the let-
ter ended in a desperate-looking scrawl) — It will be too
too lovely to be with you again.

J-

The other letter made a bulky package. She opened it
and saw many sheets of round unformed handwriting. At
the top of the first page some other hand had written some-
thing minutely in pencil: Julian’s hand. She read:

You asked me for news of Mariella. Here it is. I
think you guessed what I was neither perspicacious nor

DUSTY ANSWER

336

interested enough to suspect; or did even she fall into the
common habit of “ telling Judith? ” There is something
about this document which has made me feel far from
flattered in my vanity or elevated in my self-esteem.
What I send you is for you and no one else. After you
have read it destroy it. You are discreet; and for some
reason you care what becomes of us; and, last but not
least, you have the artistic conscience, a sense of dramatic
values. It seems to me this rounds us off nicely.

Tchehov? Turgenev?

J.F.

And underneath she read in JVlariella’s childlike hand:
Dear Julian,

I think this is the first letter I have ever written to you.
Fve often wanted to write to you when I couldn’t bear it
any longer. Fve often nearly started and then I haven’t
dared. I don’t know why I do now except that Martin
dying does make me feel rather desperate. I’ve nobody
now and he was allways nice to me. I think he guessed
a little but never said. I could allways rely on him.
I didn’t think unhappiness could ever last like this. I’ve
had it for years and I’ve allways thought, well it must
get better soon, something nice would happen, but it seems
to get worse and worse and I must just get used to it now.
Don’t you think there must be a Devil to account for all
the damned misery in the world, I do. What am I to do
with myself, I haven’t got anybody. If I beleived in God
ever listening to us and minding what happened to us
Id say it was him telling me to write to you, because it
came to me last night all in a flash I must do it, I should
be sort of saved if I did. I was deciding to kill myself
but once Ive written all this out I dont think 111 want to.
Ill go away and never see any of you again but 111 go
on living.

What Im writing to you about is this. Will you take

DUSTY ANSWER

337

Peter and look after him — you will do it better than me,
and you love him and you have always thought I didn’t
know how to look after him. I e.\pect its true. I feel
very helpless and worried about him. I hated it when he
was born, I didnt want him. I never ought to have
married Charlie, you told me so, ;.nd then to have the
baby — it meant I could never forge t the awfull mistake
and poor Charlie, and I wanted to forget him. I thought
I could never love Peter — I hated him at first — me to
have a baby of all things, but after a bit I began to love
him, he was so sweet, and instead of making me remem-
ber miserable things he seemed to be going to make up
for everything and I thought perhaps I should be happy
after all, bringing him up. And then that day you came
back on leave and saw him when he was a baby I saw how
you looked at him and I knew you were going to love him
too. And I thought, if he cares for Peter perhaps he will
like me better, but instead of that you seemed to dislike
me more. I understand why of course. You couldn’t
help loving him for himself and because he was Charlies,
but because he was mine too you couldn’t help allways
remembering the gastly quarell whenever you saw him
with me. Thats why you wanted to have him to your-
self away from me and allways told everybody I couldn’t
look after him and oughtnt to have had a baby. You
did tell everybody didn’t you? Poor little Peter I sup-
pose it was true because bit by bit I got jealous of him.
Oh what a devil I felt being jealous of my own son.
And I adored him too but I couldnt bear to see you with
him and you trying to take him away from me and him
getting to love you better than me. I used to go away
and as for crying, I’ve cried enough in the last few years
to make up for all the years of my life when I never
cried. I didn’t cry at all when poor Charlie was killed,
I suppose I was numb and then there was this horror of
the baby coming. I felt turned into stone.

And then began the time I thought you would marry

DUSTY ANSWER

338

Judith. I know you were in love with her, I suppose you
still are, she is so pretty and clever as well. I was all ways
very fond of Judith, she was sweet to me, and I used to
think Id try hard not to mind if you married her because
it was so suitable and shed make you happy if she loved
you. But I dont think she will love you, it wasnt you
she wanted. It is awfull to think she has your love and
doesnt want it. The waste, I cant bear it! If only all
the people with unwanted love could hand it on to the
people whod die for it and there were none of these
gastly gaps — everybody loving someone who loves
another person. It seems so funny it never struck you I
was the one who could make you happy, that Id always
love you and look after you, but of course its silly to talk
like that. I know Im stupid. I never read books or had
any education. I have always exasperated you but I think
if youd loved me I might have been different. Id have
lerned from you, Id have done anything to please you.
I know I could have. But it never seemed worth while
making an effort. I was allways your but and you ex-
pected me to be a fool. Its terrible how I iritate you.
Why did I marry Charlie. He begged me and begged
me and Id allways been so used to giving way to him.
Besides I was so young then I couldnt beleive things
wouldn’t come right if I wanted them to be. I thought
if I went and announced to you I was going to marry
Charlie youd realise I wasnt a baby any more, that I was
grown up, and youd say no, I must marry you not Charlie.
And then your fury when he told you and the revalation
of how contemtable you thought me. I think you were
jealous too, because Charlie had done a thing without tell-
ing you and of course youd got him out of so many
scrapes you couldnt bear him turning to someone else,
especially a person like me who I suppose you thought too
stupid to mannage him at all. Poor Charlie I know you
loved him and tried to be like a father to him but hon-
estly I dont believe you mannaged him quite the right

DUSTY ANSWER

339

way. I suppose it was my damned pride that made me
go through with marrying him. W' en he came and told
me hed sworn never to speak to vou again, his only
brother, I felt it was all my fault ind I couldnt desert
him. I couldnt help loving him in a way, he was very
lovable and he did depend on me so. I vowed to myself
I’d stop him drinking etc, and th *n perhaps youd be
grateful to me and thered be a r< conciliation. Poor
Charlie, perhaps it was best he died, he was so weak. It
was funny how he fell in love with me when he grew up.
Somebody in my life has loved me anyhow. He really
did. He longed so to have a son before he died too.
Poor Grannie, she thought it was so wrong cousins
marrying, but Charlie said no, he knew wed have won-
derful children.

Prehaps Peter will be wonderful. Hes got his music,
and he hasnt got Charlies wild histcrrical temper. Hes a
very good unselfish little boy, very afectionate. Will
you please take him and bring him up. You will do it
better than me. I couldnt write like this if I hadnt
quite given up hope of you ever turning to me. When
Martin died I thought perhaps it might bring us closer,
you were the one person I wanted to see, it would have
been such a comfort. But no, my last hope is gone. I
must think only of Peter now. I dont see how I can do
it, the one thing Ive got, but I know its best. Ill know
hes getting the best chance, which will be a great weight
off my mind. I know you dont want to send him to
school till hes much older, Im glad because hes rather
dellicate and not a bit like other little boys — you man-
nage all the money, so youll know how much there is for
him. Quite enough I think. Prehaps you will let me
have him now and then for little visits, and when he
grow9 up prehaps 111 be able to explain to him — if Im
alive. I dont really think I shall be. I promise 111 never
intrefere or bother you, but please you must remember its
not because I dont love Peter Im giving him to you, but

DUSTY ANSWER

340

because 1 love you and wish he was yours. It will be
wonderful doing something for you. Itll make me all-
most happy. Dont let him quite forget me, but I know
he really loves you better than anyone. Oh before he
was born I used to think if this was only Julians baby
how happy Id be — I love you so much I would love to
have your children and sufer pain for you — even though
Ive never wanted children for myself. I know people
allways say I am so cold and dull and sexless, so I am to
everyone else because ever since I was very young you
have absorped me intirely. To you I would have been
more like a flame, to burn you up. But you were allways
so cold and uninterested, you never thought I was
atractive to look at even.

Oh, I shiver when I think of having produced Peter
perhaps only to be as unhappy as me or to die young like
Charlie and Martin. But if you look after him hes more
likely to be alright. Please if you marry get someone
who will be nice to him. Oh this is awfull. What am I
doing. Please take him soon. Dont write me an answer
but just say if you will take him and when and I will
send him with the governess, but you will sack her wont
you and educate him yourself. I never did like her.
Well I have written it all, I feel very exhausted but Im
glad its written. I shant ever need to pretend again, the
strain was awfull. I dont quite know what I shall do. I
think I shall sell the house. I couldn’t bear to live in it
ever again after all thats happened. It was an unlucky
house so I dont want to keep it on for Peter. I dare say
I shall go on with this vet business, or anyway looking
after dogs somehow. Im not stupid with animals if I am
with peeple.

Oh, darling Martin, it is terrible without him. Why
wasnt I with him in the sailing boat, it would have saved
so much trouble. Do you really think we never meet the
poeple we love again. I know youll say never, so dont

* DUSTY ANSWER 34 1

answer. Sometimes I feel it must be alright, I feel all-
most a certainty this isnt the end,

I shant read this over. Ive written in such a hurry I
expect its full of spelling mistakes etc. and youll laugh
when you read it. I cant help it.

You mustnt dispise me for telling you I love you.

Good-bye from

Mariella.

Beneath her signature came Julian’s pencil again: c I have
sent for Peter.’

7

In the early afternoon, the taxi drew up beneath the
archway of College, and she saw once more the red-tiled
floor, the cold polished walls, the official bleakness and
decorous ugliness of the entrance hall.

The portress had been her special friend. She opened
the door of the lodge, expecting a joyful smile: but the
elderly woman sitting at the table was unfamiliar.
c Is the portress out ? ’
c I’m the portress, Miss.’
c I don’t think I remember you.’
c No, Miss. I only came this term.’
c Ah, yes. How do you like it? ’

* Well it’s all a bit difficult to get into, Miss. Hard like.’
c Yes. I found that. I used to be here.’
c Oh yes, Miss.’

Her eyes looked bored behind her glasses. She was think-
ing there were any amount of girls always coming and
going. You couldn’t be expected to take an interest. . . .

Judith looked around her and was seized with panic.
The whole place was unfamiliar. Nothing recognized or
greeted her.

A menace of footsteps drew near, resounding harshly on
the tiles. A group of girls in gym tunics passed and stared.
They must be first-year students. She could not remember

DUSTY ANSWER

342

one of them. She shrank from their curious glances and
went swiftly down the corridor to the foot of the stairs.

A girl came running down, two steps at a time, saw her
and paused, smiling shyly.

‘ Hullo, Judith! ’

, c Hullo! ’

What was her name? Joan something? You could
never have exchanged more than a few words with her. She
was fair-haired, ordinary, rather shapeless and untidy, like
so many others; but her smile was reassuring.

‘ Have you come up to stay? 5 she said.

c l^o. Just for the day ... to see one or two people.
How are you getting on? ’

c All right. How are you? ’ '

‘ Oh, all right.’

c Well — I must fly. Good-bye.’

c Good-bye.’

She was alone again.

She went up the shallow spiral staircase, and stood still at
the top. There was scarcely a sound: it was the usual
afternoon hush. She crept up to the mistress’s door and
knocked; but there was no answer: then on to one or two
other rooms, where the grave faces of dons would look
quietly pleased to see her; but no reply came. Everyone
must be out in the well-remembered October weather.

There was still Miss Fisher’s door. She had sent a note
to Miss Fisher, her own don, saying she might come, to
inquire about a possible job of some sort, to discuss her
prospects, and ask for a written testimonial: so behind this
door there would be someone who expected her.

But when she drew near she heard the sound of several
voices raised as if in argument, and another shiver of panic
took her. She let her raised hand drop to her side again and
went quickly away; and the voices of a great crowd of
unknown people seemed to come after her, questioning her
intrusion, while she ran up the next flight of stairs.

Here was the familiar corridor and her own door, half-

open, with a strange name on it. There was nobody inside.

DUSTY ANSWER

343

She peeped in. Nothing, nothing of her that remained. In-
stead of blue, purple and rose colour, 1 lack and orange
stripes everywhere; an array of unprepossessing photographs
on the mantelpiece, and some dirty pink plates and cups
strewn about.

Only the window remained unchanged, holding up its
great autumnal tree-tops to her gaze; but their unmoving
pageant stared back and did not greet h< r. She was dis-
possessed entirely.

There on the corner was Jennifer’s door fast-closed, and
bearing an unknown name. The sunshine sloped across to
it in a dusty beam.

A maid came round the corner carrying a tray of crock-
ery. She stopped, blushing with delight. It was Rose, who
had always been so pretty and coy and smiling, and who had
once brought a hot limp bunch of wallflowers from her
mother’s garden, and laid them on her table. She was quite
well thank you, and pleased to see you again. She and
some of the other girls were only saying the other day they
quite missed you. She wasn’t staying much longer now: she
was leaving to get married.

Even Rose would soon be gone.

Now she must get out again as quickly as possible without
being seen. She had meant to pause again and listen at Miss
Fisher’s door; but now that was impossible. When now
and then on her way down a footstep started, coming closer,
a voice was raised, her heart beat in a wild terror of de-
tection. Nobody must see her slinking out again from the
place where, in her presumptuous folly, she had returned un-
announced, expecting welcome. The place was terrible — a
Dark Tower. She must escape. How had she been deluded
for three years into imagining it friendly and secure — a per-
manent dwelling? In four months it had cast her off for
ever.

Out again into the courtyard and quickly into the waiting
taxi. Jennifer would appreciate the grimness of the story
when she told her. She sat back weaving it into a dramatic
recital for Jennifer’s sympathetic ears.

DUSTY ANSWER

344

The town lay shining and smiling secretly in the sun-
light, windless, its buildings, spires and streets caressed with
a dusty golden light. Here, too, all was quiet. They were
playing games. Where had been so many familiar faces,
all seemed strange; and the few undergraduates she passed
looked commonplace, dingy even, and schoolboyish.

She hesitated on the threshold of a bookshop and then
passed on. To be recognised was now as great a dread as
not to be recognised. What would people think of her,
wandering about alone? How should she explain her pres-
ence to enquirers?

Trinity Great Court grieved in the sun for Martin. It
hadjiot yet quite forgotten him. It did not like its hand-
some young men to die.

If only Jennifer would co n\e soon she could clasp her
hand and feel a strange voluptuous stir at the heart of her
sorrow; but to flit and pause alone like this, obliterating her-
self with a sort of shame, looking out for a chance familiar
face and yet fearing to see one — this was appalling. It hap-
pened to people revisiting their university with twenty years
between them and youth.

Tony must still be in Cambridge. He was a Fellow of
his College now. . . . Suddenly conscious of his being very
near, somewhere round the next corner perhaps, she dived
for shelter into the tea-shop.

The young waitress came towards her with a smile; at
sight of the pleasure and greeting in her face, Judith felt a
weight lift.

‘ Your usual table? ’ she said in her soft voice.

‘ Yes. Fm expecting my friend. You remember her/

< Yes, indeed I do. That’s nice/

She led the way to the table in the corner, beneath the
window, lingered a little chatting, and then was called
away. ,

Nearly four o’clock. Jennifer might be late: she always
was.

The room was empty save for two women in the opposite

DUSTY ANSWER

345

corner, engrossed in the usual whispered tea-shop confi-
dences. What warmth and colour Jennifer would bring
with her when she came! Judith thought

“I won’t look towards the door; I’ll look out of the
window; and then suddenly I’ll turn round and she’ll be
there.”

Where she sat, the purple curtain obsci; red her conven-
iently from the street; if she craned her neck forward a
little she could just see round the curtain and out of the
window. Over the large shop-front directly opposite, on
the other side of the narrow street, the blue blind was drawn
down; and the plated glass made a dark mirror. Within its
space she watched a shadow-show of people passing to and
fro.

The clocks chimed the hour.

The street was filling up now. It was amusing to keep
one’s eyes fixed on the blue blind, to see only an insubstantial
noiseless world of human forms, cars and motor-bicycles,
and be blind to the confusion of human and mechanical
reality collecting outside. She would look only at the blue
blind and see Jennifer’s reflection approaching before she
saw herself. Her heart beat at the thought.

The room was filling up now. She tipped Jennifer’s
chair against the table, for fear it should be taken; re-
sumed her watching.

The space of glass cleared suddenly, was empty of all its
shapes. She stared into the dim blank, waiting.

Then two shadows slid slowly in and paused. She
watched them calmly, knew them without shock of alarm
or surprise. Roddy bent his head to light his pipe. She knew
the individual set of his feet, his long legs, the slender rather
round-shouldered line of his back. She could almost dis-
cern his curious blunt profile, with its upward sweep of
brow and eye. Tony was with him. His short figure had
its hands in its pockets, its head raised towards Roddy, nod-
ding slightly as if in earnest conversation. The noise in
the street seemed to die away, and in the long hushed breath-

DUSTY ANSV/ER

346

less space of a minute, Roddy lit his pipe, threw away the
match, passed a hand over his hair in a familiar gesture,
nodded and laughed, it seemed, looking down at Tony with
that queer half-turn of the head; and then moved on,
slipped with his companion towards the edge of the
pane; and vanished.

He had come to see Tony then, just as if nothing had
happened: as if he had not searched the sea for dead Martin;
as if there were no reason not to go smoking, laughing,
talking past the great court of Trinity.

Did he miss Martin? Had he put from him the memory
of the tragedy with a characteristic shrug of the shoulders?
Did ie ever think with momentary discomfort of Judith?

Tony would have him all to himself now: no Martin, nc
Judith to interfere. He would be happy. They would
come closer to each other; and never again would Judith
be able to step in between them; for there was no more
Judith. What were they talking of so earnestly — what,
what? The old yearning to know, to understand, returned
for a moment, and was followed by an utter blankness; and
she knew that she had never known Roddy. He had never
been for her. He had not once, for a single hour, become
a part of real life. He had been a recurring dream, a figure
seen always with abnormal clarity and complete distortion.
The dream had obsessed her whole life with the problem of
its significance, but now she was rid of it.

She had tried to make a reality out of the unreality: she
had had the power to drag him once, reluctantly, from his
path to meet her, to force a convergence where none should
ever have been; and then disaster had resulted.

She seemed to wake up suddenly. Roddy, Roddy himself
had been parsing in the street outside. She could have seen
him, and, instead, her eyes had not wavered from his reflec-
tion. A shadow laid on a screen and then wiped off again:
he had never been much more; it was fittingly symbolic
that she should have allowed him to pass thus for the last
time from her eyes. For it was certain that she would never
see him again.

DUSTY ANSWER

347

Half-past four. She would not watch the window|Jror
Jennifer any more. For the first time z occurred to her
that Jennifer might not come. She beckoned to the waitress
and ordered China tea and scone.

* I won’t wait any longer for my fr.end. Something
must have delayed her.*

She sat on, crumbling the scone, sipping tea. She counted
twenty-three times over very slowly; and then looked at the
door. Then she counted again. She tc dc an illustrated
paper from the window-sill and studied it. If she went
straight through its pages without looking up, Jennifer
wopld come.

Quarter to five. Jennifer might have made a mistake
about the tea-shop: perhaps she was sitting waiting some-
where else. But that was impossible. Perhaps she had con-
fused the time, the date. . . .

She took Jennifer’s letter from her bag. October 24th.
Four o’clock. “ Don't wait for me after five."

What was it that she had scratched out? She scrutinized
the thick erasure; but there was no clue.

The clocks struck five. When the last one had finished
chiming she rose, paid her bill and went out again into the
happy-looking streets, where there was nothing more now to
fear or to desire.

The train steamed out of the station.

Farewell to Cambridge, to whom she was less than
nothing. She had been deluded into imagining that it
bore her some affection. Under its politeness, it had dis-
liked and distrusted her and all other females; and now it
ignored her. It took its mists about it, folding within them
Roddy and Tony and all the other young men; and let
her go.

Darkness fell, and the ploughed fields went wheeling and
slipping by, the smoke-white evening vapours laid low and
heavy over their dim chill violet expanses.

She was going home again to be alone. She smiled,

DUSTY ANSWER

348

thinking suddenly that she might be considered an object for
pity, so complete was her loneliness.

One by one they had ^11 gone from her: Jennifer the
last to go. Perhaps Jennifer had never for an instant meant
to come back; or perhaps her courage had failed her at the
last moment. Wise Jennifer shed her past as she went
along; she refused to let it draw her back to face its old
coils and perplexities and be tangled in them once again. She
did not want to return to Judith and love her and be trou-
bled by her once more; or else return to find that all was
different, that in this ten months 5 interval life had separated
them beyond hope of reunion. Yes, Jennifer had escaped
again. She had never intended to come back.

Yet it was impossible to feel self-pity. Perhaps it was
the train’s monotonous reiterated motion and murmur that
benumbed the mind, soothing it to a state that seemed like
happiness.

When she reached home she would find that the cherry-
tree in the garden had been cut down. This morning she
had seen the gardener start to lay the axe to its dying trunk.
Even the cherry-tree would be gone. Next door the board
would be up: For Sale. None of the children next door
had been for her. Yet she, from outside, had broken in
among them and taken them one by one for herself. She
had been stronger than their combined force, after all.

She was rid at last of the weakness, the futile obsession of
dependence on other people. She had nobody now except
herself; and that was best.

This was to be happy — this emptiness, this light un-
coloured state, this no-thought and no-feeling.

She was a person whose whole past made one great circle,
completed now and ready to be discarded.

Soon she must begin to think: What next?

But not quite yet.

THE END